


Take What You Can

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes may have defeated Blackwood, but he's lost Watson in the process. When he begins to hear rumors of Blackwood once more rising from the grave, he goes investigating, looking for something more than a rational explanation. What he finds – a living Blackwood and Coward, with actual magic at their disposal – will drag him into a bargain with a far kinder devil than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Where to start? There's quite a history behind this one. In 2010 (oh lord) I signed up for a kink small big bang looking for 12k or more. This had already been in the works for a while at that point, but then life (aka depression) happened and it was never completed. (On that note I am so very sorry to my artist who created a really lovely fanmix based off the very little I gave them, which can be found here (http://kink-bigbang.livejournal.com/55223.html) .) It sat for ages; I'd do a frenzy of work and then nothing at all for months, until I finally just sat down and pretty much finished it, aside from about three scenes that then plagued me for another month or so. I make no guarentees that this fic will make any sort of sense, or be any sort of in character. I have to admit that at a certain point it just became my idfic and I doubted I'd ever post it. But what's there to lose, right? >.> Please, please point out and kindly laugh at any grammar/spelling/possessive issues you notice. I swear I’ve gone over it fifty times and every single time I find at least one more thing I missed.  
> Thank you, anyone who starts reading this even though I sound batshit because 'ilu unsetted'. :]  
> I almost forgot, until i happened to hear it again the other day: the title comes from 'Nobody's Side' (http://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/chessnewyork/nobodysside.htm), which kept pulling at me when i started considering how to write this.
> 
> Never make a promise or plan  
> Take a little love where you can  
> Nobody's on nobody's side.
> 
> Final notes: There are three sections of POV here, shifting from Blackwood to Cowad to Holmes. Hopefully it is not comfusing. Also, two endings, sorry!

*

  

Blackwood does not believe in magic.

 

Which is why he is more than a little surprised when his eyes open to nothing more than white ceiling tiles where he expected to see hellfire. His body is stiff, aching, unaccountably heavy, yet he manages to turn his head, brushing across fabric; a bed, perhaps. His eyes search for an explanation, and find it, settle on the man slumped in a chair beside the bed.

 

Coward is a gaunt, pale ghost of himself, eyes dark pits in his face, and for a moment all Blackwood can feel is relief; then fear grips him. Coward's face is dotted with blood, arms streaked with it, and his rumpled, dirty clothes are stiff and dark with it. If he could move, he'd flinch at the hoarse, broken sound of Coward's voice; as it is, he merely blinks.

 

"My lord," Coward says. Closes his eyes briefly, his hand darting forward to grasp Blackwood's. " _Henry._ "

 

He tightens his fingers on Cowards, and tries to form his thoughts into words, but his voice yet fails him. What, and why, but most importantly, how, _how_? He holds Coward's gaze, and as always, his thoughts are read with disturbing ease.

 

"Anything is possible, if you truly believe. If you truly want." He gestures a weary hand at the mess behind him, and Blackwood's eyes focus on wax and candles and chalked symbols and blood, everywhere blood. "I was answered, and my desires granted."

 

Blackwood knows this is impossible, but still – he breathes, he lives, his heart drums in his ears, proof that something momentous has happened, something otherwise unexplainable. "Who?" he finally forces out, barely above a whisper.

 

"Who else?" Coward answers with a twisted, sickened smile. "The great one himself." His eyes are haunted, his body involuntary curling in on itself, fingers digging into Blackwood's hand. "He is … all that he is called, and more." He shudders, and his shirt slides down one pale shoulder, revealing a jagged line of torn flesh on chest. Blackwood draws a harsh breath and forces his hand to more, to reach across the short distance between them. Coward anticipates and pulls his shirt down further, exposing a vicious uneven circle about his heart.

 

"What-" Blackwood manages, and Coward does not look at him as he answers.

 

"He demanded payment. He takes -" Coward's voice shakes, and he closes his eyes. "There are contracts signed in blood; this is mine. He... he devoured it before me..." he whispers, and if Blackwood had known what would have come of such belief, of such devoting, he would have shown Coward the machines the day they met, taught him all his secrets. But this, this is not possible, is not possible, a thought he repeats until his hand touches Coward's chest, rests about the ugly mark and feels nothing, no steady heartbeat. A lack of movement that shatters him, and all he can think is that he has been given too much. _What have you done_ , he wants to ask, but Coward is watching him again and he is trapped by the devotion in those eyes.

 

"What is your plan, my lord?" Coward asks, and Blackwood doesn't know how to answer. He diverts the question the only way he can think of; he tugs Coward closer, pulls him down to the bed, and whispers against his mouth.

 

"Prove to me that I am alive," and Coward is only to happy to comply.

 

Blackwood does not believe in magic, but he believes in Coward.

 

*

 

Later, he cannot dodge the question any longer. What does he plan? What does he want? And how, how, how is going to accomplish anything – how can he even go out in the street? He will be recognized, will stir a panic even greater – well. That could be turned to his advantage.

 

"Henry?" Coward whispers, a liberty he'd seldom allowed, before. He looks down at Coward, wondering. How he inspired _this_ level of devotion, when he still held Coward at a distance, he does not know.

 

Coward is looking at him, his eyes a little too wide. "Yes?"

 

"What will you do?" he asks. "I – I must admit; I thought little beyond having you back, beyond being able to touch you and speak to you and have you near and -" he flushes and stops. Closes his eyes tightly, and his fingers dig into Blackwood's skin, bruisingly hard.

 

When he opens his eyes, his gaze is wild. "I can give you England," he whispers, "if you still want it." He laughs. "I can give you anything now. Anything you want," and the gaze he turns on Blackwood is frightening in its intensity, in a way it never was before.

 

Blackwood hesitates, for – England. He'd wanted England, wanted it firmly under his thumb, powerful, flourishing. He'd wanted the power. He'd – but now, as he thinks of having that, it stirs nothing in him. Nothing, and that chills him. He couldn't care less if England fell, if he never had power over more than Coward's heart. This is what he wants, here, lying next to Coward and hearing him breathe and believing they'll never have to be apart again.

 

He can hear him breathe, but he can't hear his heartbeat.

 

Coward – Coward _paid_. Paid for him, paid for their dream of England, paid for power. To give that much up – he must have cared, wanted, so much. More than Blackwood can even imagine, now. How can he throw that all away? How can he force Coward to give up what he desires, for this simpler thing that never would have been enough, before? He touches Coward's face. Coward wants this.

 

"Yes," he says. "Give me England," and smiles

 

Coward laughs, spreads his hands, and there is a hum, a crackle, a heavy feeling in the air that weighs down the breath in Blackwood's chest, and a crown appears between his hands, a crown like nothing Blackwood has ever seen, that hurts the eye to look at, yet he longs to touch it, have it, as it calls to him. It falls into Coward's hands, as solid and real as anything, and coward places it upon Blackwood's head. "Another King Henry," he says. "I like the thought of that."

 

It burns his brow, coldly. "What-" he whispers.

 

"I’m stronger, now," Coward tells him. "I’ve more power than I could ever use, than most would not even know what to do with. There is nothing that can stand in our way, when we are ready to take England back. I will give you your enduring empire."

 

Blackwood takes the crown from his head, turns it over in his hands. "Show me more," he says, and Coward dazzles him.

 

Spins things out of nothing until the rooms are as decadent and luxurious as any they might have possessed when they were still lords. Traces symbols on Blackwood's skin that he has never seen in any book, and leaves behind lines that shine like gold, warm under his skin. "They will protect you," Coward says. "Will burn anyone who touches you without your consent to burn, from the inside out, their blood boiling in their veins until the burst. Will send anyone you touch, when you want it to, to burst into flame, become a pillar of fire." He smiles at Blackwood, pleased with himself. "Like Standish," he says, "but cheaper in power." He touches Blackwood's shoulder with the faintest brush of fingers. "I will give you more, in time," he whispers. "Imbue each one with enough power to make everything you wish to do easier." He kisses Blackwood's shoulder. "I know it was difficult, before, would exhaust you. It doesn't have to be like that any more."

 

There was never any magic, Blackwood thinks. Oh, Daniel. What have you done?

 

He wants to weep. Instead, "Show me more," he whispers and stares numbly at the beauty Coward shows him, stunningly beautiful illusions. But only illusions. He rolls over to face Coward. Lays his hand on the ridged scar on Coward's chest, and he could swear it pulsed under his hand, moved, sluggishly. "There is nothing you could show me that outshines yourself," he tells him, and Coward ducks his head.

 

"I can make you feel," he says. "Can make you feel -" and rolls into Blackwood, skin touching skin, and it is like his nerves have been flayed, but he shudders in pleasure, abruptly hard and needing. He moans, as he never does, and pulls Coward closer. "I can make you feel such things," Coward whispers, and kisses him, and everything is more, more than it has ever been, too much. He cannot think, he cannot act, he only wants and wants and wants, burning himself by Coward's touch.

 

"Show me more," he breathes, and Coward does.

 

*


	2. Coward POV

*

 

There's something amiss when Coward whispers the warding keys, something niggling in the back of his mind, and it is at that moment that Henry places a hand on his shoulder, breathes into his ear. "Daniel…"

 

He nods. "I know." He pauses a breath; "Wait for it," and pushes open the door.

 

There's no obvious sign that the rooms are already occupied, but everything is screaming at him that someone's there. Nothing, nothing, and Blackwood shifts at his back; then a flare, a match burning the darkness away. He catches the barest glimpse, a mere outline of face in a chair, hands cupped around the dimly glowing end of a pipe. He steps forward.

 

"I'd ask how you found us, but then, you are Sherlock Holmes."

 

Henry lets out an exasperated breath against his neck, and steps away. He still can't see Holmes' face, but he can hear the grin in his words. "Well done. You should come in now; I assume you don't wish to attract attention, and I'm unarmed."

 

"It's a good thing I am," and Henry steps around him, enters the room first; Coward waits until he's lit a lamp before he joins them. Holmes is watching Henry closely, but turns his gaze to Coward as he settles in the chair across from him.

 

"I won't as how you found us, but I am curious; how did you get in?"

 

Holmes frowns. "Through the window. Although why that would astound you…"

 

 _Through the window…_ He'd bypassed the wards. Coward checks – and they are still there, shimmering quietly with power. He exchanges a glance with Henry, turns back to Holmes with a raised eyebrow. "Well. That's interesting."

 

Holmes waits, no doubt expecting elaboration, but Coward has no intention of playing into his hands quite yet. "I assume you sought us out for a reason, rather than idle whim."

 

"There's always a reason," Holmes replies, lets the silence hang awkwardly. Coward waits.

 

"How did you do it?"

 

Coward tilts his head. "I beg your pardon?"

 

Holmes inclines his head toward Henry. "Surviving another hanging – an unplanned one at that. Everything else becomes clear after a bit of poking about, but that remains a puzzle to me."

 

"What, you've no speculations?"

 

"I... I'd several, but the facts keep invalidating them. Your mere presence," he says to Henry, "makes it all the more difficult to solve. The details- There's something I'm missing."

 

Henry smiles, slowly. "Indeed."

 

"When I heard the first rumors- the only possibility was that some sort of double was being used, but if that's so-"

 

"It's not," interrupts Coward. "There will only ever be one Lord Blackwood." He smiles to himself. "Go on, Holmes. You haven't asked what you really want to."

 

Holmes' mouth twists in irritation. "The only explanation that fits requires me to doubt my own eyes – for I saw you dead, and had no doubt – yet here you stand. Obviously, you were never dead, but-" He stops as Henry steps around from the back of Coward's chair, settles himself on one arm, a tellingly casual gesture.

 

"I was dead," he says.

 

"Not possible," Holmes replies, snapping his words out sharply. Coward grins, the insufferable smug one that he knows will grate upon already frayed nerves.

 

"Oh, Holmes. Why, didn't you say it yourself? Nothing is impossible."

 

"A true ressurrection? Yes, impossible. So how did you manage it?"

 

Coward raises his hand as a fist, uncurls it and turns it over, his palm bursting into flame as he does so. Pointless and useless, but showy, to be sure. Holmes starts violently. "By magic, of course."

 

"Impossible," Holmes whispers, his eyes distressingly wide. "There's no such thing."

 

"Improbable," Henry corrects, touches his fingers to Coward's palm and draws them away, burning merrily; he rubs them together, blows them out. "But whatever remains-"

 

"Cannot be truth," Holmes says, but the certainty is draining from his voice. Coward closes his hand, the tiny fire going out without so much as a puff of smoke.

 

"Then explain."

 

Holmes shakes his head. "I can't."

 

"Then accept," Henry says.

 

Holmes raises a shaking hand to his lips, presses his fingers against them as he regards them closely. Coward watches him back.

 

"If it's true-" Holmes starts; stops, takes a breath and starts again. "If this is true, if there is such a force as magic, if it is possible to accomplish such things, then I may have a bargain for you."

 

"What are you offering?" Coward asks.

 

"Non interference. I'll step out of contention. You've plans to rise again; that's whispered in every half hidden corner these days. I've brought you down before. I've no doubt I could again, but I'll step aside if you can give me what I want. I won't work to assist you, but I won't work against you either. I'll leave the country, wait it all out somewhere."

 

It's an interesting proposal, and Coward won't deny that Holmes is probably the only person capable of bringing them down. He's almost certain that Holmes wouldn't be able to manage this time, but almost is not completely, and he doesn't care to leave anything to chance again. "And in return?"

 

"Watson."

 

Henry chuckles, and Coward regards Holmes with curiosity. "I shouldn't be surprised. I wonder how the good doctor would regard his own resurrection. Favorably, you think?"

 

Holmes doesn't reply. Coward sighs. "As tempting as that offer is, you ask the one thing I cannot provide-"

 

"So it's not real then." Holmes turns his head, closes his eyes. He seems to sag in his chair, and Coward knows suddenly that Holmes had believed in the possibility of magic all along; had believed and tried his best not to.

 

"Let me offer a revision," he says. "I cannot bring him back for you. But I can show you how to bring him back yourself." Holmes head jerks around to stare at him, surprised. Coward lets his smirk grow. "Most of the magic is in how much you want something, and I have no particular interest in seeing Dr. Watson returned to the living. You, on the other hand…"

 

"You'll show me, then? In return for stepping aside?"

 

"If that is what you want."

 

"Done."

 

Coward hesitates. He's normally not one for warnings, but … "Henry." He glances up; Henry is looking down at him with gold flecked eyes. "Bring us a drink to cement our bargain?" He waits until Henry has walked to the cabinet, turns back to Holmes. "He won't be quite the same, you realize."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"He's dead." Holmes flinches, and Coward drives forward. "He can't come back from that and not change. There will be things that aren't as you remember."

 

Holmes looks down, links his fingers together; unlinks them. Looks up. "Show me how to bring him back."

 

Henry returns, bearing tumblers of brandy. Hands one to Holmes, who accepts; raises it to Coward and drinks it down. Coward accepts his own, toys with it a moment longer. "It will take time," he says, "and you will not enjoy it-"

 

"I'll do it."

 

He stares hard at Holmes. "Then I will ask even more from you," he says, and drinks.

 

Behind him, Henry drinks as well; Coward whispers a sibilant phrase of bastardized latin against the rim of his glass. It's not an invocation, not a promise, not a thing Holmes would know of, but Coward will hold himself to these terms by it.

 

"Well," he says as Holmes stares at him, wide-eyed and off balance as he's sure few have seen him. "I suppose I should give you a glimpse of what you could achieve. An incitement, perhaps."

 

"I hardly need one," Holmes says, low.

 

"Mmmm, you may not, but you should take what is offered, Holmes. While I'm feeling generous."

 

Henry drifts away, uninterested, applying himself instead to the scattered papers on the desk; Coward bites back a frown. Turns instead to Holmes, and _concentrates_.

 

There's a waver in the air between them, like the dizzying shimmer above a candle, like a rift of blank sky, like a gasp that's never heard but merely felt against skin. Holmes jerks in his seat, and the restless air takes form, takes on the form of the good doctor. Becomes a colorless mask of Dr. Watson's features, blank and still and unseeing.

 

Or not.

 

For the lips are twisting up, are opening in a cry that cannot be heard; the eyes clenching shut, every sign of overwhelming sensation, of suffering. Holmes makes a small, choked off sound in the back of his throat. Starts forward before he can quite help himself, and Coward sees him check himself suddenly, sees him shut his own eyes and swallow back the tears trembling on the ends of his lashes.

 

Dismisses the shade with a bare flick of thought.

 

Holmes remains – not motionless, for he is trembling in every limb – but caught, in that moment of stopping himself. It's almost amusing, to see him like this, see him so uncontrolled. He's going to have to learn to do far better if he's ever to call up Watson himself.

 

"That was uncalled for," Holmes bites out.

 

"Uncalled for? I think not." Coward waits until Holmes looks to him, waits until those eyes are fixed on his. "You see, Holmes? It is possible. He is there, for the taking. I can give you no more than that, only the means to accomplish more. But you must remember; I hardly care whether or not you succeed."

 

Holmes' hands tighten on the arms of his chair, and then: "Are you done with me for now?"

 

"For now," Coward agrees. "Since you've found us so easily, I trust you'll have no trouble doing so tomorrow. Not too early, mind you."

 

Holmes nods shortly, and rises, stiffly, disjointedly.

 

There's a hand on Coward's shoulder. He looks up; Henry is watching Holmes from under lowered, hungry lids. His hand draws up along the side of Coward's neck, settles warm and certain behind his ear.

 

He knows what Henry is asking, silent and curious. What he wants. And he always, always gives Henry what he wants.

 

"Holmes."

 

Holmes freezes. Turns back to them with a hesitancy that's at odds with the tight set of his face.

 

"You could stay," he tells Holmes. Holmes starts. "Do you really want to go back to Baker Street? To those rooms?" And he knows, he knows well enough the way empty chairs look, and the way the light falls differently when there's only one person, knows the echoing silence of rooms that aren't as empty as they feel, knows the way there is no sleep, for every time the eyes close the images of blood and loss and failure rise up to beat at the mind; knows that Holmes may be used to being alone, to loneliness, but now he's had a taste of what it's like not to be lonely, and it is going to haunt him.

 

Holmes stills, stares at them blankly for a moment. Coward can see the moment when the way Henry and he are looking at him registers, the moment when the instant reaction of disgust becomes buried under longing – longing for something, anything, he can't quite define. Buried under longing, and the rising tide of loneliness, and curiosity enough to kill ten cats.

 

"You can pretend," Coward says, amused, "that I'm not giving you a choice, if that makes it easier," and he shouldn't goad Holmes so, really, because it's inevitable that it will happen at some point, this collection of bodies tangled on the bed.

 

Holmes draws a breath. "Will it?" he asks.

 

"Oh, yes," Coward says. "I shall push at your control in every manner possible. This is just another. Although it does not have to be merely that."

 

There's a beat, and then Holmes sways where he stands, ever so slightly, hesitant and bewildered, torn. His anguish is delectable.

 

Henry leaves his shoulder, walks to Holmes, who regards him with something akin to the gaze of a trapped animal. But he doesn't resist when Henry catches his jaw, fingers resting against the fluttering pulse of his neck. Doesn't pull away when Henry kisses him, bites at his bottom lip; tugs and worries it until Holmes shudders, once. Henry turns Holmes' head away, brushes his lips across the line of his jaw, the corner of it, whispering into his ear an order that demands to be obeyed.

 

"Undress."

 

Holmes shivers, but Henry has already turned away, back to Coward, who is watching with an amused smile. Which he quickly loses as Henry kisses him, hungerly, hand spread wide and flat against the side of Coward's face. Kisses him until Coward is gasping short breaths, unable to keep himself from pressing forward into Henry, fingers curling in the fabric of his waistcoat.

 

He gains a breath when Henry shifts his attention to his neck, places sharp, biting kisses, another and another and another before he pulls away entirely, eyes dark and wanting.

 

Turns his head to regard Holmes, who's gotten rid of jacket and waistcoat and cravat, but has stilled with his fingers caught in the buttons of his shirt, staring at them. "I gave you an order, did I not?" Henry says, voice roughened by lust. Holmes starts.

 

Coward laughs suddenly, and as they turn to him: "Bed," he says. "Both of you."

 

They comply, Blackwood tugging the half unbuttoned shirt off Holmes and shooing him towards the bed with a hand on his back. Holmes stumbles, uncoordinated and no doubt a bit shocky. They share a glance of amusement before he turns, and Coward laughs again. Holmes flushes.

 

"Must I keep repeating myself?" Blackwood says, and Holmes starts again, staring at them. He looks lost, and his hands move slowly to the buttons of his trousers. Blackwood sighs. "Oh, stop. Sit down."

 

Holmes stares just as blankly and does not move. Blackwood steps forward and shoves Holmes, in the chest this time, forcing him to sit on the edge of the bed, and kneels before him. "Shoes," he says, and "you're hopeless," as he slides off Holmes' shoes, and then socks. He shakes his head. "Hopeless."

 

"I-"

 

"Hush," Coward says, softly. "Just let us." Holmes looks panicky, tense, shaken. Blackwood stands and backs off a few steps, turns and holds his hand out to Coward.

 

"You can rid yourself of your trousers without any help, I hope," he says, and pulls Coward in close, sharing a kiss. Coward sets his fingers to the knot of cloth at Henry's throat, and begins the enjoyable task of undressing him.

 

Once he's done with Blackwood, he sets to undressing himself, and there's definitely something – something to be said for knowing two men are looking at you as you undress, looking at you and enjoying what they see. Naked, the room is slightly too cool; his skin goose pimples as he turns to the bed.

 

Holmes has sunk down to kneel on the bed, half aroused but still tensed still to flee, taut muscles shaking as he battles against his thoughts. He something to see, as different from Henry, or himself, as can be, and Coward rather likes the contrast. He kneels on the bed before Holmes, ducks his head to catch those reluctant eyes. Holmes looks at him, and Coward takes his hand in his own, lifts it to his mouth and sucks at those lovely, long digits. He wants to press Holmes' palm to Henry's, see if their hands match as closely as he thinks. Holmes shivers. The bed dips behind Coward as Henry joins them, settles in. He leans forward and sets his hand against Coward's shoulder blade, his lips leaving slow kisses on each knob of vertebrae. Coward arches his back, slowly, sensually, and tucks his chin down, tucks it into his shoulder as he turns his head, grants Henry better access to the curve of his neck, and of course Henry takes advantage of it. His eyes narrow, almost closing, his mouth opening in a breathless gasp as his hand tightens on Holmes', and Holmes – Holmes does the unexpected. Shifts, inches along the bed closer to Coward and threads his fingers through the fall of hair obscuring Coward's eyes, lifts it and stares at him, nervous, hungry, awed. Curiosity, Coward thinks as he opens his eyes, already half blinded by lust. Curiosity would always be Holmes' downfall.

 

Henry threads his own fingers into Coward's hair, alongside Holmes', and pulls his head back, sharply enough that Coward whines breathlessly. "Go on," Blackwood says. Smiles, a bit mockingly. "You can touch him." Holmes hesitates, then slowly, so gently Coward can barely feel it at first, he brushes his fingers along the tensed muscles of his neck. Strokes him. Ah, Coward could purr. Henry tugs him harder, harder, and he arches upwards, trying to relieve just a little, just – he whimpers, tears forming on his lashes, but that's only to be expected. What's not so expected is Holmes, brushing them away, stroking his face, fingers trembling. "He's lovely, isn't he," Blackwood says, and there's a note of gentleness in his voice that jerks Holmes' eyes to him. He leans forward and kisses Coward as he whimpers into his mouth. "Beautiful," he says quietly. "Don't you agree?" he asks Holmes, and Coward may be vain and well aware of his appeal, but it still pleases him to hear Holmes' quiet, broken yes.

 

"You can touch him," Backwood says again, and presses his fingers to Coward's lips. He opens them, sucks at Henry's fingers as he had Holmes', and they leave a wet streak on his cheek as Henry withdraws them that Holmes lays his hand on. Holmes' hands are warm on him, gentle, so gentle. Gentle when he's no reason to expect gentle from this man, and the soft touch from Holmes is just as pleasurable as the final tug Blackwood gives his hair as he releases him. His head falls forward, Holmes' hands cradling him, and then he's caught for a moment by Holmes' eyes, wide and wild and wanting. Coward smiles and leans forward the few inches and kisses Holmes. His lips are chapped, tasting faintly of smoke, and Coward wants more.

 

"Kneel up," Blackwood whispers in his ear, and Coward is as clumsy as Holmes was earlier, tucking his feet under himself and kneeling, knees spread wide, his cock painfully hard. He jerks, giving a sharp cry, as Holmes shifts as well and accidentally brushes his cock. Holmes jumps a little, but then, lips parting, reaches forward as though to touch Coward's cock – "Not that," Blackwood says, sounding amused. "Not yet," and he slides a finger into Coward's ass, fingers downright cold. Coward starts, and makes a noise he doesn't know is protest or pleasure, and Holmes leans forward this time and kisses him. Blackwood twists his finger, and Coward moans into Holmes' mouth, feeling Holmes' breath catch as well. Coward rocks between them, kisses and wet tongue and hesitant hands stroking his chest, his arms, his neck, on one end, and twisting, scissoring fingers at the other, as Blackwood adds more, stretching him and pressing that particular spot until Coward is nearly mindless, making desperate needy noises into Holmes' mouth, shaking, precome dripping from his cock. "Please," he breathes, "please please please."

 

"Now," Blackwood says. "Now you may," and Holmes barely hesitates when he reaches for Coward's cock. The instant he touches it, Coward shivers violently, shoving his hips forward, his litany of pleases growing incoherent. Holmes strokes him, and again, and again, and Blackwood presses his fingers into him, and Coward cries out as he covers Holmes' hand with come. He pants, leaning forward on his hands, shaking in the aftermath of orgasm, and makes a high whine when Blackwood removes his fingers. He opens his eyes to see Holmes staring rather blankly at his sticky hand. Blackwood laughs, lowly. "Why don't you offer him the chance to clean up?' he tells Holmes, who transfers his stare to him. There's a long moment in which Holmes does not move, though it seems almost as though he is straining against the air, on the edge of fleeing, again.

 

"Holmes," Coward says, softly, his voice rough around the edges. "Holmes." Holmes turns to him, and the stare softens, becomes a look, nervous, uncertain. Yet he holds out his hand, trembling slightly. Coward smiles, slightly, and presses his hands to Holmes' palm, licks the sticky mess from his fingers.

 

Henry tugs him back, until Coward gives in and falls limply against his shoulder, legs sprawling out, head falling back over it, exposed in a way that apparently tempts Holmes beyond reason, for he starts forward only to stop himself, and Henry chuckles, the sound settling deep into Coward's bones. "Come," he tells Holmes. "Worship him." And Holmes does, places his lips to the stretched line of Coward's neck and kisses him, sucks his skin, nips in a way that must be leaving red, lurid marks, runs his hands down Coward's sides, numbering the ribs, licks at one pebbled nipple, all while Blackwood holds Coward, his turn to be gentle as he murmurs an increasingly overwrought stream of compliments into Coward's ear.

 

He's not sure what he expected from Holmes, but it wasn't skill – and he wasn't completely wrong. The way Holmes touches him, the reactions he teases - yes, definitely teases – out of him, tell him plainly that Holmes has done this before. Well, perhaps not _this_ , but that he has been with another person before, perhaps even with another man. More than once, he thinks, enough to have learned more than pure curiosity would teach him, but not enough to be sure, not enough to be other than slightly hesitant about everything, more than the uncertainty of this particular situation. Not enough for that, or – or with someone who took pains to tell Holmes how poorly he'd done. Someone who'd hurt Holmes, and Coward wonders distantly who it could have been. Not the doctor, surely.

 

Coward moans, gasps, and shifts restlessly after only a few minutes of Holmes' attentions, hardening again. He can feel Blackwood's cock pressed up against his back and presses back as he shifts.

 

"Henry," he says. "Henry."

 

"No," Blackwood says. "Not yet. I’m not done with you two yet." Holmes shudders against Coward, and he raises a hand to touch his jaw. Holmes turns his face into Coward's hand, inhales like he is trying to learn Coward's scent. Coward slides his hand behind Holmes' head, pulls at him gently until Holmes shifts forward between his thighs, leaning over him. He tilts his chin up, asking for kisses, and Holmes leans closer – and then stops, glances at Blackwood. "Oh, give him his kisses," Blackwood tells him. "He'll be insufferable otherwise," and Coward grins before Holmes kisses him, and oh, Holmes. He kisses – he kisses like he has forever to explore Coward's mouth, and he won't be rushed, won't be pushed into more, harder, hungrier. It's nothing like kissing Blackwood. He wants to them to trade kisses off, be passed from one to the other until he can't think clearly enough to tell which is which. Another day...

 

"Holmes," Blackwood says. "Worship him," and Holmes look confused, until Coward shifts his hips and draws his attention to his once again hard cock, though his need isn't as painfully urgent this time.

 

"I-" Holmes starts, and then closes his mouth, staring at them both mutely. "I’ve nev- I don't-"

 

Coward pulls him down and silences him with a kiss, revising his thoughts on Holmes' experience. "It's fine," he says, quietly, and presses Holmes' head down. He slides down, looks up at Coward from between his spread thighs. Looks down, and then grasps Coward's cock and covers the head with his mouth. It doesn't matter to Coward if Holmes has any expertise – his mouth is warm and wet and when he brushes his tongue over the opening, that is enough for Coward. He twists, his hips rising, as Holmes continues to trace his tongue along Coward's cock. Blackwood slides his hands up, until he can touch and pinch and twist Coward's nipples, and Coward groans. "You two, "he gasps out, "are going to destroy me," and Blackwood laughs, warm breath huffing by his ear, lips trailing down his jaw, his neck, and then – the sharp pain of a bite, and Holmes slips his lips further down the shaft. It's almost too much for Coward; he twists and moans as they draw it out, as Holmes' hips begin to shift against the sheets, and he is so close, so, so - his back arches and Blackwood bites particularly viciously as he comes, but he can barely feel it.

 

Holmes has only just managed to sit up a bit, and Coward is still panting for breath when Blackwood shoves him forward at Holmes. Coward makes an utterly undignified squeak as Holmes catches him, startled, then moans as he settles against Holmes, limp and sated. Holmes has frozen, obviously unsure what to do with a armful of Coward, when Blackwood shoves Coward forward again, toppling them both over, Holmes on his back, wide eyed, Coward draped over him. Coward shifts, his hip pressing against Holmes' cock, pressing his lips against Holmes' neck, in the soft hollow between his collar bones, whispers, so softly he thinks Holmes might not hear him – "Beautiful," - and then just gasps as Blackwood presses into him, hard and filling and Coward – Coward – he can't – it's overwhelming, Blackwood above him, fucking his ass, Holmes below him, shivering and panting, hips shifting against him, wet precome smearing between their bodies – it's nearly pain, now, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care. Holmes is making the first real noises they've heard out of him tonight, quiet little half bitten off moans, his hands clutching at Coward's hips, fingers digging in painfully, every stroke Blackwood makes shoving him back and forth along Holmes' cock. He makes a sudden noise in the back of his throat, and his fingers tighten further on Coward's hips, and he comes, hips jerking against Coward, warm come pooling between their stomachs, and still, still Blackwood is fucking him. Is fucking him harder, painfully, until Coward can't seem to see or feel anything else, but he hears still, he hears the slight sharp intake of breath that is the only noise Blackwood ever makes as he comes.

 

Blackwood doesn't quite collapse on him, but it is a close thing. He pushes Coward to the side a little, off Holmes, who is lying very still, too still, shivering, and drops to the other side of Holmes, a leg caught between his much as Coward still has an arm draped over him. They all do nothing but breathe for several long moments, then, half muffled into the twisted up bed covers; "Why am I always the one who ends up bruised seven ways to Sunday?'"Coward complains, one hand absently stroking Holmes' chest.

 

"Because it's so easy," Blackwood replies, obviously amused, and shifts a little, and Coward feels it, the tremor in Holmes at that, the caught breath that sounds like it hurt to take. He turns his head until he is facing Holmes, who is staring up at the ceiling, stiff, trembling under their grasp.

 

"You never were together, were you? You and the doctor." Holmes jerks. 'You never," Coward says slowly "even admitted it to him," and Holmes turns his head sharply to look at Coward, shaking, his eyes wet.

 

"No," he says, the word tearing out of him, each breath beginning to catch like a sob. "No, no, no, no, no-" and he shakes and twists and looks like he'll run, if they let him up.

 

"Shh," Blackwood says, gently, and kisses Holmes' shoulder, levering himself up on one elbow. "Holmes," he says, and Holmes turns to him, panicked. "Holmes," he says again, and cups his face, kisses him, kisses him like he rarely kisses Coward, slow and sweet and gentle, with no hunger, no push. Holmes freezes again, and stares at Blackwood when he withdraws. Coward kisses his other shoulder, pleased with Blackwood's choice; they can afford to offer Holmes a little kindness. "You'll get him back, you know," Blackwood says, with a certainty that Coward doesn't share. When he looks at Blackwood, surprised, Blackwood shakes his head. "You two. You burn. You're alike in passion, at least." Coward blinks at him.

 

Holmes is still staring at Blackwood, but he's stopped shivering, he's relaxed some, and Coward presses closer, cocoons Holmes between himself and Blackwood, until Holmes sighs heavily and stops resisting, goes lax in the manner of one who is exhausted beyond reason. "Henry," Coward says quietly, and holds out his hand. Blackwood offers his hand, and Coward wraps both their hands around Holmes' wrist. " _Q_ _uod non catenam ligaveris sed mea, operatus de argentei sanguinem_ ," he whispers, draws Holmes' wrist to his lips and kisses the underside, the blue veins barely hidden by skin, and lets go. Holmes stares at the silver band around his wrist, a crest of heart and cup where Coward's lips rested.

 

"What – what is this?" he whispers.

 

Coward traces the edge of it. "Call it a reminder. That we have made a bargain – shall I go back on my part, it will disapate. Shall you go back on yours – well, let's just say it's harsher." Holmes tenses and begins to pluck at it, trying to find a way to get his fingers under the band, to get it off. Coward laughs. "Don't bother trying, Holmes. It's keyed to the two of us, and nothing less than our full desire will unlock it. You are ours now, and we are not letting you so easily.' He fists a hand in Holmes' hair and drags his head back. "Ours," he whispers. "Don't fight it."

 

Holmes jerks his head away, violently, and starts up. "No," Coward says, and Holmes gasps in pain as the band tightens on his wrist. He looks at Coward, his expression angry, but also – oddly betrayed. He shakes his head mutely. Coward sits up, rests his hand on Holmes' chest. "It will be easier if you just accept it," he says, and draws him back down, and Holmes- Holmes comes with him, limply. He's run out of fight, Coward thinks.

 

Blackwood sighs and hauls himself out of bed long enough to turn down the last light and drag a coverlet over them, and then sleep comes quickly.

 

*

 

Coward's working on a small bit of magic, a charm he can pin to Blackwood's robe during ritual gatherings, a charm to protect him, when he hears the rustling of bed covers to his side. He watches Holmes out of the corner of his eye, through the open door, pretending he is yet unaware Holmes has awoken. Holmes looks lost, small in the rucked up covers. Shivers. Starts when Coward finishes the charm moment later and sets it to the side, a pile of papers rustling. Coward turns his head, acknowledges Holmes, who opens his mouth, but closes it without saying a word.

 

There's a robe lying at the foot of the bed; Holmes looks at it, reaches for it, then hesitates. "It's for your use," Coward says, and Holmes scowls. Coward watches him as he rises, attempting to hide his nudity as quickly as possible, watches him stare at the silver around his wrist, and shudder. "We should set you to work," Coward tells him.

 

Holmes looks at him rather suspiciously, Coward thinks, for one whom he's spent the night with. He moves to stand before Coward's desk. "To work on what?"

 

"Why, Holmes. Magic, of course," Coward says

 

Holmes frowns. "What's to work on," he asks. "It's magic, after all. Say a few words, sacrifice a few virgins, draw the right pictures. It's as sharp as science, surely."

 

And Coward laughs at him, because – "It's nothing like science, Holmes. Because it's never the same for anyone. You can all follow the same rituals, say the same words, and only one will have any success, because only one will believe, only one will want with a need that burns too brightly. Only one will be answered."

 

"Is that what happened to you?" Holmes asks, curiosity taking hold again

 

"Yes," Coward says. "In a manner of speaking."

 

Because it wasn't – he didn't have the magic first. He had Henry, first, and Henry had the magic, as little and small as it was. Had just enough to make things that shouldn't have worked work, but not enough to save himself. Nor had Coward, then. He'd had to give up part of himself for enough, for more than enough, really, to bring Blackwood back, to bring their plans to fruition.

 

He's mostly sure it was worth it. For Blackwood, Blackwood is worth anything, anything, but the power? He doesn't care about England, he has no passion for Blackwood's plans to destroy London, remake the world, restore England to glory. Not any more. He will give it to Blackwood, he will make it happen, because it is what Blackwood wants, but for himself? He is content merely to see England burn, and see the world burn with it, because he's not going to be around long enough to have to deal with it all.

 

"Then how?" Holmes demands. "How to ensure my success?"

 

"Magic – there's a certain element of inborn ability, which is the one thing will cannot make up for, not entirely-"

 

"What if I don't have it?"

 

Coward laughs. "Oh Holmes, you have it. You have a considerable amount of it. You came right through my wards, without even noticing, without breaking them." He smiles, and it is a rather sharp smile. "Haven't you ever wondered why you are the one to make such leaps in logic, to find the clues everyone else overlooks?"

 

Holmes stares at him, and then, "No. No. it's not – it's just observation. If people would just pay attention, they could see what I do. They can learn. It's not magic." Coward can almost see the thoughts tumbling through Holmes' head, the fear. That it can't be magic. If it's just magic – if all his skills are just magic, just trickery – It can't be.

 

Coward smirks and shakes his head. "As you wish it, then," he says. He rises, makes himself a drink and sits in the chair he occupied last night. "It's want, mostly," he says. "The more you want it – as long as there's that spark of ability to start with – the more you gain. The rituals," he pauses. "The rituals … aren't really necessary. Oh, they can help from time to time, make things easier or faster or take some strain off you, but you don't need them. Willpower, want – those are what will bring power to heal. And control. Control – without it, you can have the magic, but it's never going to be as precise, as in control, and the control is what is difficult to get, why magic isn't far more widespread. Your willpower alone is what forms the magic into something useful; otherwise it will simply hover, turn to other pursuits, make the strong stronger, the charismatic more so," he darts an amused glance at Holmes, "the observant more so. If your will is not strong enough, if you cannot control yourself, you will never control magic. People have enough trouble controlling their most basic desires, much less their minds, so is it any wonder that they cannot conceive of magic? People are lazy. And those who do achieve their goals – they're selfish. They're not about to teach others."

 

"Why, then? Why are you willing to teach me these things?" Holmes asks.

 

And Coward laughs and replies,"They are only selfish because they are afraid. I am not afraid, Holmes. You are no threat to me."

 

*

 

He's sure Holmes means to return to Baker Street, but somehow, he never quite got there.

 

Holmes is impatient, pressing to know more, more, more, now, now now. But Holmes is not as important as their plotting, and he would just have to wait. "Not today, Holmes," he tells him. "I have things I must work on, and I won't have time to start at the very beginning with you."

 

Holmes frowns, impatient, but then: "May I watch?"

 

Coward raises an eyebrow. "If you wish," he says. "Don't expect anything too flashy, though. And don't interrupt me." He turns to his first bit of work, a deceptively simple distraction spell aimed at a few key members who would oppose them most – its intent is to cause enough building distraction and miscalculations until some egregious mistake causes them to fall from favor and trust, but it must be molded to each targeted person to be truly effective, and he needed to invest a higher level of power so it would continue to work without his constant supervision. He planned to affix the spell to a small object that could be left in the target's rooms and remain unnoticed. As he pulls the first toward him and began tracing sinuous maze like patterns, he can almost feel Holmes' curiosity as though another person was in the room, and he waits for Holmes to question him.

 

When Holmes remains silent through two more such spells, Coward relents and rewards him with a brief explanation before he begins the next one.

 

They continue in this manner for some time, until Coward can feel the edges of his control turning slick, the first warning that he needs to rest. Normally, he'd ignore it. Normally, he doesn't have anyone watching him, much less as intently as Holmes.

 

"Enough," he says, and Holmes starts slightly, looking surprised when he sees how far the sun has sunk. He shifts restlessly, and Coward leans back in his chair, watching him. Holmes looks lost.

 

"Have you somewhere you need to be?" he asks Holmes.

 

"No," Holmes says. "But I don't need to be here either. Not now that you're finished."

 

"Oh?" Coward replies. "And where will you go? What are you off to? Have you cases?"

 

Holmes shakes his head. "No, I’ve been rather … preoccupied for cases. I'll – I'll find somewhere."

 

"Not Baker Street?"

 

Holmes laughs, shortly. "It doesn't matter if I’m at Baker Street or anywhere else – there is nowhere in London that fails to remind me of him in some way, if by nothing else than the empty space at my side."

 

Coward regards him quietly. Holmes seems half himself, hardly the force Coward remembers all too well.

 

He should hate him, really. After all, he brought down their plans, brought down Blackwood – _killed_ Blackwood, watched him turn in the wind above the Thames. Yet when he turns to those memories, he finds … nothing. The same lack of passion that he feels so often now, when it comes to anything but Henry. And Henry – Henry is back now. What was before was before, has little meaning in the world Coward resides in.

 

And when Holmes looks like that, Coward remembers far too vividly the ragged, gaping hole left in him when Henry was gone, when he was alone, when every single breath brought with it the constant beat of _gone, gone, gone_. He knows that look; he has seen it often enough in mirrors. And that, surprisingly enough, does stir something in him. It's mostly pity, which he thinks Holmes would not appreciate at all, but not only pity.

 

"You could stay, for a while," he says. "Eat with us. I suspect you've not been eating much." He hadn't. Henry hadn't been impressed with the amount of weight he'd lost, shadows where there was once a certain fullness Henry had loved. There's an odd sense of teetering to Holmes – wary, and wanting. Much like last night. And much like last night, Coward knows he will stay, because, in a way, Holmes has a more ragged hole. Coward had been content with his own company, before he lost Blackwood, and without sympathy after, whereas Holmes – he doubted Holmes had ever been comfortable with himself, the way he had latched on to the doctor, with the seeming of one who has never quite been able to find company they can stand – not even their own. And Holmes had had an overabundance of sympathy – and with each outpouring, a subsequent reminder that he was without the doctor, a reminder that no one's company brought him any easing. The loneliness in Holmes is overwhelming.

 

He is lonely enough that he will take even their company.

 

Before Holmes can make up his mind, there's a shiver in the wards, a familiar one; Henry opens the door, bearing food, and Holmes makes no protest when he is included. He is quiet during the meal, while Coward and Blackwood talk of the day's work, occasionally touching each other in the way that has become common, after. Had become habit, in the earliest days, when they both needed reassurance every few moments that the other was still there, not merely memory.

 

Quiet, but he watches them fiercely, and when the meal is ended, he makes no move to leave, though he looks awkward, uncertain where to sit, to look. He starts when addressed and has few words in return, frowning slightly as he watches them. His hand drifts to the band around his wrist, worrying it.

 

Blackwood leans over and kisses Coward, and Coward feels his blood heat. Holmes makes a small sound, and they both turn to him. He blushes, surprisingly. "I – I should go," he whispers, and stands.

 

He's half a step from the door when Coward speaks. "You don't have to leave."

 

Holmes pauses. "I think I do," he says, looking down.

 

Running scared, Coward thinks. He really shouldn't be surprised to see Holmes act in such way so similar to any other person. He pushes. "I could make you stay, you know. If I wanted. If it was worth it." Holmes lifts his eyes to look at him. "Do you want a choice, Holmes?" _Are you worth it, Holmes?_

 

Holmes eyes are wide, shaken. "I -" He shakes himself. "I have to go."

 

Blackwood chuckles as Holmes closes the door behind him. "He's interesting, isn't he?"

 

Coward looks up at him. "Why did you want him to stay, the other night? Aside from the fact that he's beautiful," he asks with a teasing smile. "I hardly object, but I’m not sure I understand."

 

"He is, isn't he?" Blackwood turns a bit, draws him closer. "I wanted – he killed me. Well. No. Bad luck, or fate, or something, killed me. I think he would have rather had me alive, in the end. But he was there, he was in great part responsible for how things played out – I wanted him under my thumb, wholly under my power, helpless, scared, humiliated." He smiles. "And he was. He couldn't help himself, and he hated it, and he didn't hate it, and he hated _that_.' Coward makes a noise of agreement. "I like him like that. Divided. Powerless."

 

"But?" Coward prompts.

 

"Mmm. But. But. He's – he's not quite Holmes, is he? He's broken." He smirks. "I'd like to break him more." Shakes his head. "And at the same time – I don't like him, Daniel, but I don't hate him as I should, and when he wavers like that, I want him to make the choice that damns him, the choice that favors us, that he stay with us, lie with us – but not because I want his suffering."

 

"Yes," Coward says. "That's rather it, isn't it?"

 

"Do you think he will?"

 

"Oh yes," Coward says. "He's desperate, and not just to get his doctor back. We're not the monsters he remembered – a different kind, perhaps, but not what he remembers, and he sees us like this, we treat him like last night, and he wants it – wants it enough to run from it. He'll be back, and I don't think he'll run again." He wonders, briefly, distantly, why _he_ wants Holmes here, why he is finding a want in himself for a Holmes that isn't quite as wounded. Wonders, but finds no answers.

 

He smiles, curls his fingers in Henry's shirt. "But I'll make him choose it, and he'll remember that. Remember that he chose what may sicken him at times."

 

Blackwood makes a pleased sound of agreement. "Shall we fix him? Or break him?"

 

Coward shrugs. "Why not both?" and then, "Enough," Coward says. "Right now, I want you," and Blackwood is laughing at him as he's tugged down.

 

*

 

When Blackwood gets out of bed the next morning, Coward hears him pause just beyond the doorway.

 

"Good morning," Henry says.

 

He hears a subdued reply and smiles into the pillow. Holmes is back.

 

That night, when Blackwood takes his hand and leads him toward the bedroom, Coward looks over his shoulder at Holmes. "Are you coming?" he asks.

 

Asks.

 

Holmes looks at him like he's expecting to be hurt, but he follows them all the same. Acts like he's expecting them to hurt him every time they touch him, and seems almost frightened when they don't.

 

*

 

Holmes creates a clutter of things on a table in their rooms when he brings a bag back from Baker Street, and Coward shifts through them, curiously. Stops.

 

When Holmes comes back in, Coward waves a small leather case at him. "No," he says, and Holmes freezes. "Absolutely not."

 

"I-"

 

"You'll never get anywhere with magic if you continue to indulge," Coward tells him. "I’m only upholding my end of the bargain, and I will not have this." The lights were low, and he hadn't really been paying that much attention when they were in bed together, so, "Show me your arms, Holmes."

 

Holmes mouth tightens, but he rolls up his sleeves. It's not as bad as Coward had expected; the marks are few, and not as recent. He's not an addict then. "Good," Coward says. Traces one thin mark with his finger. "But no more."

 

After a long moment, Holmes nods, and a little tension seems to drain from him.

 

*

 

They settle into a bit of a routine.

 

Days, he works on his self appointed tasks, burns through magic until he can do no more. Or teaches Holmes, who struggles. Who hates struggling, and who, on occasion, gives into frustration and possibly fear and disappears in the morning before either he or Henry wake, and doesn't reappear until late into the evening, if even then. Coward doesn't ask where he goes, or what he does, and Holmes doesn't offer it. Henry generally spends the day out, meeting with someone or other to gain support, turn them to their side. Sometimes he is nothing more than a menacing figure while another of their more trusted followers does all the actual work; Coward can usually tell when it's been one of those days, because Henry comes home in a high humor and becomes positively savage in the bedroom.

 

Evenings, Henry and he talk about their progress and potential problems while Coward curls into him. Some evenings the discussion is mere distraction, words traded between lingering, sated kisses, and Holmes watches, mostly, silent. Coward's not entirely sure if Holmes watches so intently because he wishes to hear what they are doing, though he can do nothing about it, or because he wants to be on the settee with them, instead of his chair, and dares not try. Either way, it seems to hurt him, but he does not stop.

 

Nights, they share the ridiculously large bed Coward conjured, and sometimes they simply sleep – tangled up in one mass of legs and arms, or with Coward curled between the two of them, or, occasionally, when Holmes seems to have an especially bad bout of conflict, he and Blackwood together, with Holmes huddled as far from them as he can get. Though he's always closer, by morning. Other nights, they do more than sleep, and Holmes almost always joins them, following their lead, never initiating anything himself. He's hardly the creature Coward had imagined, had read about, though he finds Henry has a knack for drawing that biting wit out of Holmes, far better than he can. There's a fear, deep within Holmes, and it smothers every action. Of course that fear draws Henry, and of course he cannot seem to resist playing with it, but for Coward it simply provokes curiosity. What is Holmes so afraid of, he wonders, what does Holmes think they will do to him?

 

He askes Henry that, one night when Holmes has not come back. Henry shakes his head. "He's more afraid of himself then he is of us," he says, which, as Coward makes sure to tell him in a particularly sarcastic tone, is less than useful. Henry laughs, and bites him, and somehow they never really continue the conversation. Holmes remains silent, withdrawn, near sick with longing but always, always holding back. Not unwilling, but...

 

Coward wants more than that.

 

"

 

"Magic," he says, "is a bit of a bad joke."

 

Holmes frowns. "How so? It's magic. Isn't that enough?"

 

Coward shakes his head. "First you have to have the ability to even use it – most don't. Even if you have the ability, you have to know about the magic to do anything with it, and that's just as rare. What's the likelihood of any average person really researching magic, enough to realize what the energy surrounding them means? Very little. And then – so you can do magic, and you know that it is there to be manipulated. But what can you do with it? Unless you are prepared to sacrifice a great deal, or die, not that much. Small things, occasionally useful things, but nothing really grand or powerful."

 

Coward rolls a stone ball in his hand, a small focus. "Basically," he says, "either people can't do magic, don't know they can do magic, or aren't willing to pay enough. Otherwise we'd no doubt be knee deep in magicians."

 

"What happens to the ones who don't know?" Holmes asks.

 

"Like you?" Coward says, and Holmes frowns. "Mmm. The magic … gathers to them anyway. You could say they use it, passively. They don't direct it, but magic has a way of picking up on what you want, or are already skilled at, and running with it. It tends to enhance those traits. I don't doubt that an unusually high percentage of people with the ability among the most famous, most talented."

 

This doesn't please Holmes to hear, he can tell. "Why can't more be done with magic – why such a high price on it? What kind of price?"

 

"I don't know," Coward says. "I believe it has much to do with how much energy it takes to control magic, form it. The energy needed for those great works can't be found in a single person. Why it takes so much, though, I don't understand. The magic seems eager to be used – else why would it hover over those unaware, act on their wishes? But it's so difficult to use." He pauses.

 

"I’ve wondered," he adds, "if some long ago magician did something to cause this. They seem to have been able to do more, then. Perhaps they feared what could be done with such easy access to magic, so did what they could to prevent that. Who will pay the price to access so much, if it is so high? And the price – when you no longer have the fuel in yourself to work the magic, you can go on, do more, if you let it have time off your life. Months, years even. Potentially, you could do anything you wanted with magic, with no limit, but you'd likely day in days." He smiles, slightly. "Most magicians seem to have an obsession with attempting to prolong their lives, any how."

 

"Then how do you do it?" Holmes asks. "how did you raise Blackwood, continue to work so many, such strong spells? I see you, every day, and you spend magic like it's nothing. It's been months since I first heard rumors of his resurrection – how are you still alive?"

 

Coward laughs. "I cheated," he says. "and before you ask, most people wouldn't consider the price of this route any better. I don't have to do as much work to use the magic as most would, or use as much energy. I’ve a line feeding me it, so I have a smaller portion of the controlling already done for me, which gives me more energy for other things. And even then – there's - " he frowns, trying to think how to describe it. "There's a loop, of sorts. A tiny percentage of the power I uses goes to actually restoring my energy, so I can do even more. Up to a certain point, using magic invigorates me instead of draining me. But there is that point where that loop … breaks down. It's– the bit of magic that gives me more energy must still draw from something, and that is still my energy, or – energy from me. When that runs out, I’m in the same boat as most. It can't seem to feed on the energy it's created itself."

 

"How did you set that up? Can I?"

 

"I didn't." Coward looks at him, more serious.

 

"Then who?"

 

"The one I made my bargain with." Coward says. "The Devil. Really, I didn't bring Blackwood back. The Devil did. I just … paid for his services."

 

Holmes is staring at him as though he's mad. "That's not – the Devil isn't real. Heaven, Hell, all that – that's not really -"

 

Coward grins at him. "An unbeliever! You can believe magic, but not that?" he says, mockingly. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it is not the Devil himself, was we think of him. But it was something powerful and old and evil, that feeds on suffering, that has some use for souls. Yes," he says, raised hand forestalling Holmes, "souls. That does rather imply the whole religious aspect, doesn't it?"

 

Holmes is quiet for several moments, considering. "You believe in souls, then?"

 

Coward touches his chest, where nothing beats, though he lives on. "If he did not take my soul," he says, "I do not know what. But he most certainly took something, ripped away a part of me that makes me not as I was before."

 

"So that's it, then," Holmes says. "You can't teach me how to bring Watson back. I have to go to," and he choaks a bit on the word, "the Devil."

 

"I never said what exactly I would teach you," Coward says, annoyed. "I will teach you how to …. invite the Devil for a bargaining session. It's not as easy to attract his attention, to make it worth his while, as you might think." He looks at Holmes. Holmes doesn't have to be like him. "You could stop, you know. Rather than make a bargain with it. You won't come out ahead if you do. And by now, you've heard enough of our plans that you could be a true threat against us."

 

"No," Holmes says. "I would make bargains with worse if it would bring him back." Barks out a brittle laugh. "I’ve made a bargain with you, after all."

 

Coward shakes his head.

 

*

 

Holmes' longing grows bolder, though he remains held back from them, unwilling to take any action himself. He is divided, one day turning to them as though to the sun, the next running, disappearing for the night into some slum, only to return the next morning, back hunched, looking as though he's waiting for them to throw him out. He worries at the band around his wrist until he's rubbed the skin raw, blisters oozing and causing him to catch his breath whenever they are touched. Coward says nothing, offers nothing, is no more gentle or careful with his touches.

 

But he isn't any harsher either.

 

Henry seems to find enjoyment in teasing Holmes, drawing his eye and offering him attention, affection, even, only to dismiss him when Holmes sways into him. Coward supposes it's some form of payback – he doubts Henry is quite as uncaring about Holmes' role in his death as he professes – but as long as Henry is content, he has no objections.

 

For himself, he finds there are too many similarities lying between him and Holmes for him to find any enjoyment in truly tormenting him. He isn't quite as indifferent as he projects, but all the same … like most things, Holmes remains at a distance from him, his passion reserved for Henry, and Henry alone.

 

One night, when he and Henry have become involved in each other enough to nearly forget Holmes' tense presence in the room, Holmes flees to the bedroom, obviously hiding from them. It's a rather unusual choice of doors for Holmes to disappear through, but Coward is too preoccupied with Henry's mouth and Henry's hands and pointless, eternally frustrating buttons to pay Holmes much mind.

 

Yet as he is kneeling before Henry, mouth full of cock and ears full of Henry's shuddering breaths, gentle hands curled into his hair, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Holmes stands in the doorway of the bedroom, just far enough back to be almost hidden in the shadows, and watches. Watches not with intensity, but with a curious blankness Coward has not seen before, his hand tense on the door frame, nails digging into the wood. He watches, for how long Coward cannot say, because in the end he only has enough attention for Henry, and does not notice when Holmes disappears.

 

When they crawl into bed, Holmes looks to be asleep, but Coward discovers he has learnt the shape of Holmes' body well enough to tell he is faking. When Holmes rises, silently, long after Henry has fallen asleep and Coward is on the edge of sleep, he waits a long, long moment before he rises and follows Holmes out to the main room.

 

Holmes is huddled on the settle, knees drawn up and face hidden in his hands, still, silent, frozen. Tears drip from his hands, run down his arms. Coward watches, hidden, but Holmes might as well be a statue, unmoving except for the steady stream of tears.

 

Coward retreats to the bed, curls up against Henry, and lets himself feel grateful.

 

The next time Henry taunts Holmes, when that blank expression flashes across Holmes' face for a fraction of a second, Coward takes a moment to speak with Henry. He doesn't exactly say he disapproves, or that he wants Henry to stop, but … when he tells Henry what he observes of Holmes, Henry understands. Understands enough that he stops figuratively slapping Holmes down when he hesitantly responds to Henry's attention. To Henry's subtle, rare, affection.

 

Coward, himself, never offers affection. Finds himself, often, wanting to, but...

 

Doesn't. Except for, of course, the time he finds himself running his fingers through Holmes' hair, thoughtlessly, as he stands behind him and reads over his shoulder, only register Holmes' stillness when he realizes it's been a good five minutes since a page turned.

 

Or the time they are both down on their hands and knees, chalking eye twisting symbols onto the floor and Coward puts his hand down after pointing out an error in Holmes' work, puts his hand down on top of Holmes' and some impluse has him lifting Holmes' hand to his mouth to bestow a swift, brief kiss in his palm. The taste of chalk lingers in his mouth for hours, and Holmes gets far more wrong than right until they move to another topic.

 

Or the time Holmes makes a disgusted sound after sipping from a cup of tea that he's neglected for at least an hour, and while Coward laughs at him, he also takes the cup from Holmes' equally cold hands and heats it with a tiny burst of power, turns the rim until his lips rest where Holmes' had a moment ago, and sips it himself. When he's satisfied it's once again a drinkable brew, he passes it back to Holmes, and cups his hands losely around Holmes' for a moment more, until they are no longer chilled.

 

Or, honestly, really, any of a number of times lately that he's found himself responding to Holmes in a way that's warmer than he'd ever planned on. Alright, fine, so he does offer Holmes affection, he thinks with a scowl.

 

But it's only because Holmes has such a throughly enjoyable expression afterward.

 

*

 

"Fire," Coward says, "is both the easiest and the hardest thing you can do with magic."

 

"How so?" Holmes asks, his eyes on the fire.

 

"Conjuring fire is simple. Fire wants to exist. Here – even now, you can do it." Coward digs around for something that will contain the fire and comes up with a shallow metal bowl. He shreds a piece of paper and sets in the bowl, smiling. To conjure fire – there is always a small burst of giddiness with fire; add that to Holmes' first real conjuration – well, he was rather looking forward to Holmes reaction. "Try," he tells Holmes. "Set it on fire."

 

Holmes stares at him. "How?" he asks, rather plaintively. Coward shakes his head.

 

Holmes stares at the paper. Stares, and stares, and stares, and Coward can see the magic around him, swirling in as he gathers it, fitfully, and then suddenly the papers burst into flame, high, over enthusiastic flame that burns up the paper in seconds, and is gone. Holmes stares.

 

Reaches forward and touches the metal bowl, still warm, and smiles. Grins. "I did it," he whispers, and looks up at Coward. His amazement, astonishment, pleasure – they shouldn't move Coward.

 

But they do.

 

"Well done," he says. "You see how it is the easiest? Easy, too, because conjured fire will eat even air, so you don't need fuel, really. Try again," and gestures at the now empty bowl. Holmes conjures fire into it, flickering uncertain fire, that looks more like the shadow of fire than the real thing, but still, fire.

 

"So that's how you can hold it," he says, and holds his hand out in front of him, stares at it.

 

Coward starts and reaches forward; "No!" he shouts, but he's too slow. Holmes holds fire in his hand, burning away merrily for a second before Holmes cries out in pain, his control flickering and the fire content to continue burning him. Coward damps it in another second; he doubts Holmes has burned himself too badly, but it's still going to hurt, and he's still going to feel like a fool. As he should.

 

"You idiot," he hisses. Holmes is gazing bewilderingly at his burnt palm, but his head jerks up at Coward's insult.

 

"Why didn't it work?" he asks. "It worked for you."

 

Coward sighs. Stubborn and curious and impulsive – what a wonderful mix for disaster. "Give me your hand," he says, holding out his own. Holmes hesitates, then lays his hand on Coward's. He was right – it's not a bad burn, just enough to blister and leave the skin tender, shiny. He sets his other hand over it, not quite touching it, and summons cold. Holmes gasps.

 

"That," Coward says, "is why fire is the most difficult. Unless you are working in a contained environment," he nods at the bowl, "or simply don't care what happens, you must have fine, strong control over it. Fire is hungry, and it will eat anything at all – and conjured fire is even worse." He releases Holmes' hand, and Holmes examines it, touching it with his other hand, his eyebrows rising at the cool skin, though still blistered.

 

"You have to have such control over fire – to burn one thing, and one thing only, with not a single mark or scorch on any other, out of a cluster, to have it feed from air but only the air you define as its, to make fire with no smoke, or no heat, or," he holds out his hand and lets fire overrun his palm, dripping down on the desk without leaving a mark, "holding part of the fire cool, and part hot. Touch it, right here," he says, sliding his own fingers in against the skin of his palm, where it is cool though his fingers rest fully within the base of the flame. Holmes does, and his eyes widen. "yet here," Coward tells him, holding his hand above the flame, "is hot, however hot I wish it to be – enough to warm, enough to burn, enough to incinerate." He lets the flame go out as he closes his hand, so it looks like he has put it out with the closing of his hand.

 

That had been Henry's favorite trick, the bit of magic that reeled Coward in, one of the first things Coward had taught himself when magic flooded his veins. One of the first things he'd shown Henry, childishly pleased with his mastery over something so simple, yet challenging, something Henry had done, the first thing Henry had shown _him._ He hadn't understood why Henry looked almost sad to see the fire cupped in his palm. He still didn't understand.

 

"That is difficult," he says, "and you are not ready for such fine control yet. You need to practice before you leap into things you don't understand, Holmes."

 

Holmes sighs. "Yes," he says, rather resignedly. "I see."

 

Coward takes a piece of bread, the remains of lunch, and breaks it up into the bowl. "When you can burn just one piece, alone among the others, come to me. Until then – I suggest you practice control." He hesitates. Holmes looks a bit discouraged. His mouth tightens. Holmes needed to learn a lesson, but – he holds out his hand again, commandingly, and Holmes barely hesitates before he give Coward his.

 

When he draws it back, it's as though he was never burned. Holmes stares at him, obviously more impressed by this than the fire. Coward shakes his head in annoyance, and goes to his own tasks, leaving Holmes to his.

 

*


	3. Holmes POV

*

 

He works for a week before he can consistently burn one piece without affecting any other, and only then will Coward let him progress – and only to another trick with fire, controlling the temperature. He's to be able to conjure flame around an object without only a part of it burning, the rest held in cold flames.

 

When he protests, impatient and not seeing how this is going to help him, Coward frowns at him. "This will help, Holmes," he says, in the voice he uses when he feels Holmes is being especially slow. "If you cannot even control such a little thing, how do you expect to be able to control the amount of magic needed for the summoning?"

 

Holmes says nothing – he thinks it, to be sure, but sets to learning to control fire with as much intensity as he can. The quicker he gets this, the quicker he gains the ability to do what he actually wants.

 

*

 

He watches them.

 

He doesn't really know what they were like before all this, but he has a feeling it wasn't quite like this. Blackwood is the menace, the iron fist, the symbol for people to be drawn to, or to fear. He plays it well, seems even to enjoy pulling terror and subservience from people. But he isn't really in charge.

 

For it Coward who directs him where to go, who to talk to, who to wait a little longer on. Tells him what things will sway them most, gives him whole spiels to rattle off. Gives him charms to ensnare their minds, to keep watch on them, and – above all, it seems – to keep him safe. It is Coward who draws the plan, Coward who drives it along, Coward who is the power behind Blackwood's bogeyman.

 

Coward makes it all _work_.

 

Holmes always thought of Blackwood as the master, yet here he simply agrees with everything Coward suggests, everything he orders. It doesn't sit right with Holmes.

 

But then, neither of them are quite the same person they were, before. There's a hollowness to Blackwood, one he doesn't seem to need to fill, and a fierce passion to Coward that seems to threaten to consume him. When they are together, though, it as if those things are gone, everything stilled for them. He wonders what else Coward traded, for Blackwood. What else Blackwood lost, coming back.

 

They make him nervous. He finds himself twisting the band on his wrist around and around and around until his skin protests.

 

He works himself harder.

 

*

 

If he's honest with himself, he knows what he was expecting when he slipped into Blackwood and Coward's rooms the first time. But what he was expecting when he slipped into their bed for the first time?

 

That is still a mystery even to himself.

 

It is a mystery to him even now, every time. He never knows quite what to expect, what mood will strike them and carry him along. All he knows is that they will touch him. That they will touch him, and it will not hurt, and it will feel, for a moment, as though he is -

 

They will touch him, and he will not be as repulsed as he should be. Will quite possibly (most likely) not be repulsed at all. Will even, maybe, certainly, want to be touched.

 

He will not be repulsed by them. But he will be repulsed by himself. Of that, there is just as little doubt.

 

But sometimes, it isn't too hard to forget about being disgusted. Because sometimes, sometimes, sometimes Coward will smile at him with more warmth that he warrants, will press a casual kiss to his hair or his hand or his lips and he'll find his breath catching for a second, and sometimes Blackwood will bring home that cake that's been appearing with an increasing frequency ever since they'd teased – teased! - out of him a confession of eating far more than his share, and sometimes he will sit and they will sit and it will not feel like there is a division between 'them' and 'him' and sometimes-

 

sometimes it is all to easy to forget to be disgusted by himself.

 

He works himself harder, afraid to forget. Hoping to forget.

 

*

 

He works himself to the edge of exhaustion, until magic turns to dust he cannot gather. He works until he is hollow eyed, unable to sleep, until his hands shake, until even Coward tells him to stop.

 

"You can't go forever," he tells Holmes, once. "If you don't let yourself recover fully at some point, you never will recover, and you'll lose strength, lose the ability to work magic as long, a little less each day you are still without reserves."

 

"You do," he counters, for if he works himself hard, Coward works himself even harder, far, far harder, until he falters, until he slumps over his desk, barely able to move. He hadn't known what to do, the first time it had happened; he'd heard a soft sound, like a sigh, and turned just in time to see Coward fall forward against his desk, bonelessly.

 

He knows what to do now: pretend he doesn't notice. Coward wants it that way.

 

"I," Coward says, "am a special case. Though even I can't go on like this forever. I just have to until-" he breaks off. "Not forever."

 

*

 

Coward teaches him about runes, glyphs, symbols that don't have names. "Give me your hand," he says, and Holmes does, though not without a thought to what might happen _this_ time.

 

"You've seen these," Coward tells him, fingers tracing something lightly in the palm of his hand. "They're useful, quick," there's a dim flash of gold on his hand and a burst of heat, "but not terribly strong or long lasting without drawing on an inordinate amount of your strength." He traces another, and there's a sensation of cold. "You can combine them with other things to gain more of an effect, but in the end, they're really most useful as … depositories, I suppose you could call them." He taps the middle of another symbol and Holmes' palm feels slick, wet, rather unpleasant. He pulls his hand away, and Coward smirks at him.

 

"How so?" he asks, examining his unmarked hand.

 

Coward waggles his fingers at him, a clear demand for the return of Holmes' hand, and with a sigh he places his hand back in Coward's, who promptly traces another collection of lines onto his skin. "It most useful to pick a symbol that has connections to what you want, a concept that you need, and create a spell around it, tack it to the glyph with your own additions." There's another flicker of sensation in Holmes' hand, a tiny burst of pain, and he starts to pull back again, annoyed. Coward refuses to let go. Flicks his eyes up to Holmes, more serious now. "It's not just sensations," he says. Draws his fingers across Holmes' palm and he feels a burst of – of – something, something that warms him and sets his spine a little straighter.

 

"What?" he gasps, startled.

 

"Even then," Coward continues, as though Holmes hasn't spoken, "it takes a tremendous amount of power to gain a lasting effect with these." He stares down at Holmes' palm. "But it's worth it," he says quietly. "It can be so very worth it." He traces line after line, but nothing happens. They feel … incomplete, somehow.

 

Holmes has seen them before, symbols like this. "Blackwood has some," he says, almost a question. "On his body. His back. His hip. His-" he swallows, thinking of the one he'd mouthed over a few nights ago. "His neck."

 

"Yes," Coward says. "I wanted to give him something extra."

 

"But not for yourself?" because he doesn't remember a single one on Coward. Coward shakes his head.

 

Smiles at him, almost kindly. "It's one of those many things you can't do to yourself," he says, and presses one more line into Holmes' hand that feels right, that feels painful, yet not the same as the previous flash of pain, feels like a burn and a freeze at the same time, a sharp shock that makes him catch his breath. That sensation from before courses through him; he feels … stronger.

 

He pulls his hand from Coward and stares down at the golden glyph on his palm. Rubs it, but it remains unsmeared.

 

"Courage," Coward answers, finally.

 

*

 

When he finally can play safely with fire, though not as well as Coward, Coward teaches him something else.

 

"Come here," he says, and he slides across the bed to where Coward is propped up on one elbow next to Blackwood. "Watch," he says, holds his hand up. Fire flares on it, condenses down until it is nothing more than a pale shimmer outlining his hand, like a glove. He smiles, almost mischievously, and flicks his fingers at Holmes, who jerks away from the drops of fire. Coward laughs, and even Blackwood looks amused.

 

"Is that it?" he says, annoyed.

 

"No," Coward says, and lays his burning palm on Blackwood's chest. Blackwood takes a deep breath, not quite a gasp, and when Coward takes his hand away, there is an imprint of it, pink, just shy of a burn. He trails a finger down Blackwood's sternum, leaving a line, and Blackwood shudders. Coward reaches up, cradles the side of Blackwood's face, and Blackwood closes his eyes, makes a sound almost like a whimper, and pushes into it, slightly. Coward smiles.

 

"You can do this, now," he tells Holmes. He looks slyly at him. "Try," he says.

 

Holmes stares at him. Try? He can't – he doesn't even know how – what will Coward do to him if he messes up? Coward reaches out with his burning hand and catches Holmes' wrist, turns his hand upward, and presses their palms together. Holmes feels a – a push, in the magic, and hurries to grab it, hold onto it. Coward is showing him how, here. He concentrates, and sees, sees how to hold it, how to touch with it. Looks at Coward, uncertain. "Go on," Coward says, with a smile. "Touch him." He kisses the corner of Holmes' mouth. "I promise he'll like it."

 

He hesitates, his hand cool despite the glow outlining it. "Touch him," Coward says, again.

 

He presses his hand lightly to Blackwood's chest, over his heart. Feels the high thrumming of it, and Blackwood shudders, eyes closing for a moment. "Keep touching him," Coward says, slightly breathlessly, and Holmes looks over to see he's settled himself alongside, but not touching, them, hand curled around his cock. His other hand fists in the bedclothes. "Touch – play with his nipple," he tells Holmes.

 

Holmes swallows, still nervous, and brushes his hand up, till the tip of his finger touches the hard little nub. Rubs his finger over it, lightly, and listens to the twinned gasp from Blackwood and Coward. Presses down, runs his fingers in little circles around and over it, catches it between two fingers and tugs, twists, pinches lightly, rewarded with a moan or gasp or whine for each action. For a moment, lets himself think of nothing else but the tie of touch and reaction. He hears a sound from Coward, a sound like his name cut off, swallowed, but looks instead to Blackwood. Looks to Blackwood, jaw dropped as he pants, hands fisted in the sheets, a fine sheen of sweat turning his skin slick, eyes lidded and looking at him in a stunned, desperate manner. Holmes brushes the palm of his hand over that taut nipple and watches Blackwood fight to swallow his moan.

 

He wants -

 

He can't think too hard about anything other than the touch and the reaction and the next touch, because everything else is taken up by the fire, eating away at his thoughts as he concentrates on keeping it contained, keeping it in control. For once, he doesn't have room for any thoughts that aren't about this moment right now.

 

He wants to make Blackwood, usually so quiet and controlled, keep making those noises. Noises like he's never heard from him before. Reactions like he's never seen, before. He wants more.

 

He needs another hand for that, and thought becomes action as he slides his other hand, bursting in to bright flames for a fraction of a second and causing Blackwood to suck his breath in, only to let it out in a harsh gasp as Holmes' hand reaches its destination and closes around Blackwood's cock, painfully hard. He strokes it as his other hand slides over Blackwood's chest, traces his sides and his collarbones and his nipples, feels him shudder and twist under Holmes' hands. Squeezes Blackwood's cock as he whimpers, and then slides his hand further down, takes balls in hand and proceeds to see how many different noises Blackwood can make.

 

The answer is 'too many to catalog', and then number only increases when he slides his fingers even further and begins fucking Blackwood with them. Only the way Blackwood is panting, the red wetness of his mouth, is too much for Holmes to stand and he has to cover it with his own, has to taste the blood where Blackwood's bitten his lip to bleeding. But that's not good enough, not now, not here, and he presses his lips to Blackwood's cheek for a moment before he resumes kissing him, leaves a lurid red heat blister in the shape of his lips. Blackwood whines into his heated mouth, needy little sounds interspersed with whispered, moaned ' _fuck_ 's' and ' _please_ 's'. He lowers his head to Blackwood's oh to tempting neck and bites, worries the skin like he's watched Blackwood do to Coward far too many times, leaves behind burns with bleeding bites imposed over them, twists his fingers and curls them as Blackwood rocks onto them, his own cock aching and rubbing against Blackwood's thigh. He bites until he can't find another patch of unmarked skin, until Blackwood's shaking under him, and when he raises his lips back to Blackwood's, Blackwood squeezes his eyes shut and gasps out a ' _Holmes_!" into the humid space between their mouths, and Holmes, startled, never having heard his name said like that, ever, breathes a stunned, shaking ' _god'_ into Blackwood's, and Blackwood comes, head thrown back as his body arches against the bed, drops of come hot on Holmes' skin, and how can Holmes be expected to resist that taut, straining skin at the base of his neck where Blackwood's pulse flutters so violently, how can he, really, so he licks it, breathes out a superheated breath and listens to Blackwood scream, once, and collapse, shaking, sobbing breathlessly.

 

He stares blankly at Blackwood, panting slightly himself, his hand withdrawn from Blackwood's arse and resting for a moment in the sticky pool of come on his stomach, when he's bowled over, struck by something that pins him down, something -

 

Something that is Coward, wild eyed and breathing raggedly, hand on Holmes' cock and stroking roughly, barely coherent words falling from his lips. He stops after a bare handful of strokes and kneels up, higher, reaches down and grasps Holmes, and before Holmes has really figured out what's going to happen here, has slid down on Holmes' cock, stretched and hot and flinching and _fuck-_ Holmes nearly blanks for a moment at the feel of being inside Coward, whimpers and feels a sweat break out over his entire body, a sweat that nearly vaporizes as his distraction shatters his control for a bare second, just long enough for the aura of heat at his hands and his mouth to spread, to cover every inch of skin, and Coward cries out as the cock inside him suddenly heats. Holmes gasps and struggles for control, and Coward, while mercifully still for a moment, whispers "No." Looks at him and says – begs – "Keep it."

 

A drop of sweat drips from his chin and sizzles when it hits Holmes' belly. Coward moans, and begins moving, fucking himself in short, fast strokes on Holmes' cock, Holmes shuddering and feeling the edge coming closer and closer with every second. His fingers leave bruises on Coward's hips when he comes, and Coward makes an awful, choking sound and comes a moment later, collapsing onto Holmes, mindlessly whispering "fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ " into Holmes' skin. Blackwood is still lying next to him, and his skin seems cold where it touches Holmes'. He has a terrible, frightening urge to start giggling, but suppresses it, thinking he won't be able to stop.

 

They lie, panting and shivering, for a long time before Holmes licks his lips and whispers, 'What the hell was that?"

 

Blackwood moans and shakes his head as he presses it into Holmes' side, and Coward laughs, high pitched and shaky. "Poor Henry. You've done him in, Holmes."

 

Holmes never gets an answer from Coward, or Blackwood. The blistered bites on Blackwood's neck last for weeks, and Holmes blushes painfully every time he sees them.

 

*

 

"I think …" Coward says, after watching him successfully complete one of the spells Coward has set him, "you might be as ready as you'll be to attempt summoning."

 

Holmes blinks at him. "What?"

 

Coward shakes his head. "What I mean is that it's impossible to ever really be ready and prepared for a summoning, but you're at a point where there's not that much more you can learn to prepare you for it, so..." he shrugs. "And attempt – well, it's not as though you'll succeed the first try. Or at least, exceedingly unlikely."

 

Holmes stares, feeling a bit betrayed. "Why try," he asks then, almost sullen, "if I’m so sure to fail?"

 

"Tch," and Coward grants him a slightly disgusted look with the dismissive sound. "Because you have to start somewhere, Holmes. You won't get any close to succeeding in the summoning without practicing it. Beside, you might succeed the first time. Might."

 

He waves his hand then, dismissing the words. "You'll have to find a place to try," he says. "I suggest somewhere exceedingly plain and private, large enough for the circle, of course."

 

"I can't do it here?" Holmes asks. Not that he'd really thought about doing it here, but then, he hadn't really thought that practically about it at all.

 

Coward makes a face. "No, Holmes. For one, it would interfere with my own workings. For another, you don't want to take a chance on someone interrupting, or stepping across the circle in some way. If it doesn't kill them, or you, it could open a doorway to something quite … unpleasant." He hesitates a moment. "And this is where I did it," he says. "I don't know what effect that might have." His eyes drift over the room. "Actually, so much of what is here has some taint of magic to it. I don't think it's something I'd want to risk."

 

"I'll look for something," Holmes says. "No doubt I can find something easily enough."

 

"Try to find something that's not at too great a distance from here," Coward suggests. "These attempts will exhaust you, though it should become easier as you progress, but I wouldn't be surprised if the first few completely deplete you. Don't think you can try every other day or so, Holmes. You'll be fortunate if you can manage more than once a month, I think."

 

Holmes starts. "That few?" Coward nods, and Holmes looks down at his hands. Looks down at the band snug around his wrist. 'Then I suppose I'd best get started."

 

*

 

When he leaves for the first attempt, he is a bundle of nerves and fear. He'd reviewed with Coward until Coward's never abundant patience had worn more than thin, until Coward is practically shoving him out the door, but all the same – "Good luck," Coward tells him, softly, just before the door closes.

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

He's sure he's drawn the circle, all the strange symbols, correctly. Sure he's spoken the right words, silky drawn out sibilants and guttural phrases mixed together. Sure he's made the right offerings, focused his will correctly, done everything as it should be. He's sure of it, and waits, breathlessly, so sure that it's going to work. He can feel something draining out of him, tugging, almost, emptying him in a way that's almost worrying, a way that's too fast, too much, and he tries to pull back, to resist, to stop the spinning of the room and the numbness of his limbs and the high pitched noise ringing in his ears and -

 

and everything goes black.

 

*

 

Holmes stumbles back to the flat, weaving like one drunk, barely seeing the things he passes. Everything is blurry and the few lights in the dark hurt his eyes. He leans against the door for a moment, knowing that Coward is probably watching the door, knows he's outside. Knows he failed.

 

The door opens before he can force himself to do so, or to turn away and flee for the night, and Blackwood stares down at him. Holmes sways, reaches out to grasp the door frame as the world seems to spin around him, and Blackwood reaches out a hand to him, only to stop and step away. "In," he says, shortly.

 

Coward is watching from his seat, a book still held loosely in his hand. "I take it your results were less than expected, then?"

 

Holmes starts to shake his head, reconsidering when his temples throb warningly. "There was nothing," he says, rasps, his voice hoarse. "Nothing." He shivers, and finds he can't stop. "Nothing, nothing, nothing …" The room is far too bright around him, and he gives in, lets the dizziness take him, sags. Blackwood catches him, and he finds his face pressed against the brocade of Blackwood's waistcoat, his hands fisted in the thick material. He won't, he won't, he won't – "Nothing," he moans, and to his humiliation, feels the tears start to trickle down his cheeks. He feels Blackwood's chest rise and fall in a sigh, and then there are another pair of hands resting on his shoulders, another body pressing lightly against his back. He shudders, takes a deep breath – only to have it escape in a gasp and the threatened tears turn into wracking sobs that he cannot stop.

 

Both sets of arms tighten on him, and "Shhh," Blackwood says, right on top of Coward's "It's alright, Holmes," and he shakes his head violently. No, no, it's _not_ alright, nothing is alright, not the emptiness where Watson should be or the failure of his efforts at bringing him back or the he's let – is letting – these two see his wounds. That he should turn to them for any comfort it the wrongest of all. Should be the wrongest of all.

 

Yet when they move to the bedroom as an awkward six legged beast and curl up in the bed, none bothering to undress, cocooning him between them as he sobs helplessly, when Blackwood holds him as gently as he ever has and Coward rests his lips on his shoulder and both their arms are snug around him, immobilizing, protecting, he can't seem to find the wrongness after all.

 

*

 

Most mornings, Holmes tries to avoid lying about in bed. Not because he's not a layabout; he would in a heartbeat, if he felt it was a real option. But rather because it is the mornings in which he feels most like this bed was really only ever designed for two. And he is not one of the two.

 

Most mornings, but not all. Sometimes one or the other will be gone, and then it's not as easy to feel lonely. Coward has a tendency to nuzzle up to whoever is nearest, less discriminating than Blackwood, to be sure, and that's what he's doing now. And Holmes – can't quite take it, right now. He doesn't want to have to think about being a substitute for someone else. Doesn't want to think about what he is, where he is, what the hell he is doing. He untangles himself from Coward's arms and sits on the edge of the bed for a moment. The floor is chilly.

 

Coward rolls over, arms seeking warmth. "Henry?" he mutters into the pillows. Holmes stiffens.

 

"He's not here," he says, quietly, not sure he really wants Coward to hear him. He stands, reaching for a robe, then turns.

 

Coward is sprawled on his back, naked, watching Holmes with a rather predatory glint in his eyes. He turns a rather wicked smile on Holmes, who takes a deep, wary breath. "What are you doing up, Holmes?" Coward says, a distinctly sultry tone to his voice. It makes Holmes nervous; Coward seldom tries to … tease him, like this. Doesn't make a thing out of it, after the first few times. "Why don't you come back to bed?"

 

Holmes shakes his head, wordlessly, and takes a step back, ready to leave, when Coward makes a gesture, and something invisible circles his throat, just a shade too tight. His hands rise to his neck, searching, frantic, but he can feel nothing. "What-" he starts, only to have his words silenced as Coward pulls at the air in front of him and Holmes feels himself falling forward, falling to his knees while the thing around his neck pulls tighter and tighter.

 

"You'd make a pretty pet," Coward says, laughing, and Holmes' blood runs cold, a sick feeling settling into his gut. "Don't you think, Holmes? Would you like that, if I gave you the choice?"

 

He shouldn't say anything, he knows it, certainly should say what he does, but the words come spilling from his mouth all the same, bitter, tasting like bile. "I already am," he says, lowly, because isn't he, really? Isn't he nothing more than their toy, to pet on the head and give scraps of affection when he's done something right, to play with and toy with and use and leave-

 

Coward stills, his smile sliding away. He makes a fist and turns his head away, and the pressure on Holmes' neck disappears. He freezes, uncertain what to do. Uncertain if he wants to flee, or not move a single muscle, or shake Coward, shake him until he-

 

"Is that what you really feel?" Coward asks.

 

Holmes is silent, thoughts racing through his head. "No," he says, finally. Coward turns his head back toward him. "Pets are cared for," Holmes finishes, biting off his words. "I’m just a trophy." Coward's eyes widen, and Holmes stands.

 

Coward grabs his wrist, hand warm around the silver band that's always cool on his skin. "You're not a trophy, Holmes."

 

He wrenches his wrist free. "Don't!" he snaps at Coward. "Don't pretend-" He nearly runs for the door, and when Coward doesn't follow him, he collapses into a chair, head in his hands, his thoughts spinning and angry at everything.

 

He's not going to flee this time. He's not. He's not going to let Coward win this time.

 

He's trying to force himself into his studies when Blackwood returns, bearing breakfast. He tosses a bag at Holmes before he disappears into the bedroom, and while the aroma makes Holmes' mouth water, he suddenly doesn't want anything those hands have touched. His own hands clench into fists, and he sits, trying to get his anger back under control when he hears it. Hears a soft, breathy moan from the half opened bedroom door, followed by a wet sound, a sound he'd know anywhere, by now. It shouldn't bother him, it shouldn't bother him, it shouldn't -

 

The anger build in him and his vision blackens, everything sounding thick and heavy in his ears, a terrible, vicious, _wounded_ , anger heating his skin -

 

and the pile of papers on the desk burst into flame with a soft 'whump'.

 

Holmes stares for a second in disbelief, then jumps back, chair falling over, and slaps at the fire with hands and magic, dampening it, putting it out, cursing. He's never, ever come close to losing it like that, never thought he could even lose control like that, thought something like _that_ could make him lose control -

 

"What hap-" someone starts behind him, and he doesn't think, for even an instant. He runs.

 

*

 

He goes to Baker Street.

 

He's not sure why. He hasn't been back since, well, since he started learning from Coward. For a moment he's not even sure if the rooms are still his, despite the fact that he's left most of his things there; it's been so long he half fears Mrs. Hudson has given him up for dead and rented them to someone else.

 

She hasn't. She hasn't cleaned either. Dust lies thickly over everything. He drifts through the rooms, touching nothing. The memories hit him, everything, every chair and object and corner holding some ghost of Watson. Never mind that he'd been gone from Baker Street for ages before he died. Holmes had spent all those long months seeing these same shades, over and over and over. Reminding him that Watson was gone. Reminding him that everything was different. Reminding him that, in the end, he wasn't enough.

 

His wandering comes to a halt in Watson's old bedroom, barren, gray. He curls up on the dusty bed, sure he won't sleep, certain he'll find no comfort, no relief. Lies, Watson and Coward and Blackwood whirling around in his head, mindlessly, meaningless, wondering how on earth he's come to this point, until eventually, despite his surety, sleep claims him.

 

When he wakes the next morning, some of the anger and fear and sickening dread is gone. Not all, but some. Enough. He feels tired. He feels lonely, the bed far too empty.

 

Mostly, he feels defeated.

 

*

 

He goes back, of course. What else would he do?

 

When he opens the door, both Coward and Blackwood are seated at the little table, eating breakfast. They look up, and he is caught in their glances. Coward's expression is flat, coolly indifferent, and the silver band on his wrist suddenly feels heavier, tighter. Blackwood shows a bit more, slightly worried, eyes darting from Holmes to Coward and back again.

 

After a moment of heavy silence, Coward looks back down at his paper, and Blackwood mutely pushes a cup across the table to the empty chair. Holmes sits, feeling small, feeling sick, and no one says anything, the silence sending his skin crawling, just waiting for the explosion.

 

Coward finishes, goes into the bedroom, and as Holmes is staring blankly into his cup, he feels a touch on his wrist. He looks up. Blackwood is looking at him with a curious expression.

 

"You're not a trophy," he says, quietly, and Holmes stiffens. "Maybe … something like, at first, but you're nothing of the sort now."

 

Holmes lets out a harsh sound that's almost a laugh. "Then what am I?"

 

The minutes tick by as Blackwood gazes at him, unable to answer. "I don't know, Holmes," he says finally, shaking his head. "This – this has become more than any of us bargained for, I think. You've become closer than we'd ever thought."

 

Holmes can't help but agree.

 

They stare down at their plates in silence, all appetite lost.

 

*

 

For a moment – a second, he thinks it might work, this time, as everything goes a bit tight. There's a shimmer, and there's a faint, translucent image of Watson, just as before, just as the time before and the time before and the time before, but this time – this time he seems more solid, more real. Maybe – maybe he won't have to make such a deal, maybe this will work, maybe -

 

He reaches forward, even though he knows he probably shouldn't, and his fingers brush the edge of Watson's image, and for a second he would swear he touches cloth. Watson's head turns toward him, his mouth opening, and then he bursts into small points of light, and Holmes jerks back, his hand stinging.

 

He thought it would work, this time. He was so close! He was so – Watson was _there_ , he touched him, he's sure of it, Watson saw him, he must have, he -

 

Holmes slumps against the wall, slides down until he's curled, arms resting on his knees, hugging himself tight. He can't – he's always going to fail, he can't do this. He can't. He's never going to have Watson back, he won't ever have – he'll be alone, he'll be really alone this time, without even hope, without any chance – he buries his head in his folded arms and fights back tears.

 

Eventually, he pulls himself together enough to leave, walk back to the rooms, but he feels numb, shattered, hopeless. Coward looks up when he comes in, looks faintly, faintly concerned when Holmes just stands there, brings his hands up to press the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I was so _close_ ," he says. "He was _there_ , he was, I – I don't think I can do this, I can't bring him back, I'll never bring him back," and his voice is rough with unshed tears.

 

Coward is not sympathetic, any concern disappearing into annoyance. Is downright snide, mocking and cruel, something he has begun not to expect from him. "'It must be hard, Holmes, coming so close, and always, always failing," Coward says, and -

 

Holmes stares at him, stunned. Till now Coward has been encouraging, relentless, but still a source of support when Holmes has had nothing else, and this – he knows Coward can be cruel, has seen it, has felt it in the past, but - Coward's been many things, but he hasn't been indulging in cruelty for its own sake. He feels anger rising past the shock, the – yes, the hurt, though why he should care – and then he's ranting at Coward, pushed over the edge.

 

" - And how would you feel, if it were Blackwood you could not reach for anything, if - "

 

"I know that feeling very well, thank you," Coward says, softly, but it breaks through Holmes' anger. He stills, staring at Coward. Coward sighs, runs a hand over his face.

 

"There was no point in that." he said. "I thought – sometimes anger can be as strong as want – it wasn't-" He breaks off as Holmes continues to stare at him. "I’m sorry," he says. Sorry? Coward, _Coward_ , is apologizing to him? Was – was simply … pushing him, in a way he's yet to resort to?

 

He sits, suddenly tired. Leans back and says to the ceiling "I don't – why? Why won't it come to me? Why can't I- I’ve never failed like this, not when I’m applying myself fully. Where am I lacking?" and his voice is more desperate, more lost, than he wants it to be, than he wants to offer this man

 

There's a long silence, and then Coward speaks, almost gently. "I’ve an advantage over you. Over most men, really, while you... you are at a disadvantage. I’ve always had an overabundance of control. It's easy for me, it's second nature. I don't know why, but I always know my own mind; I know sometimes, anyone else would see me as unbalanced, out of control, mad, even, but in my mind, every thing is at rights. I want things, simply, and when I want something, I am ruthless, focused. Nothing will sway me. I’m rather single minded," he says with a small laugh. "When I wanted Henry back – focus, control, willpower, were hardly difficult for me to come by." He shifts, adds "at least, after I found my goal."

 

Holmes lowers his head, looks at Coward. Coward looks … sad, an expression he doesn’t think he's ever seen on the other man's face.

 

He shifts his gaze from something in his memory, in the distance, to Holmes. "You," he says, "You don't seem to have ever learned control, from what I’ve gathered." Holmes starts, opens his mouth to protest – of course he has! - but Coward shakes his head. "You've managed to get by on your cleverness; it's cosseted you. Even as people hate you, they indulge your whims, encourage you even, and Watson – I doubt the doctor ever really said no to you. I don't think you even really understand what it is like to control yourself, not give into your whims. You know how to focus, yes, but not how to function as you focus, how to control it."

 

He doesn't care to hear that – Coward makes him sound like the spoiled, pampered brat he has always viewed Coward as – but he can't quite deny that when his bursts of energy, fascination, come to him, he becomes oblivious to everything else, and … and he supposes he doesn't really try not to let it. He's never had reason to.

 

"Also," Coward says, "you have a fear I never had to contend with. You've a terrible dread that Watson will indeed come back."

 

"That's not – why would I fear that! All I want, all I can think, is of him, is of having him back again."

 

But what," Coward asks, "if he disapproves?" Holmes freezes – yes, he's thought of that – Watson, Watson might not think well of meddling with magic, of playing god, but surely, surely he will be so glad to live again that it will not matter. "What if he doesn't love you after all?" Coward continues as Holmes shakes his head, denying – he will not consider that. "What if he never did love you as more than a companion? What if he did love you, once, but it is too late?"

 

Holmes is shaking shaking his head, violently, denying. "I never had to fear that," Coward says, softly.

 

"No," Holmes whispers. "It will not come to that. And – and even if he does not love me – still, I cannot go on without him. I will gladly have just my friend back."

 

Coward looks at him. "You should not settle for that," he says quietly.

 

"I don't care," Holmes replies. He– he doesn't. He doesn't.

 

Coward sighs and looks off at something only he can see. "You are coming along," he says. ""You are making progress, though not at the pace you wish to. I think – I believe you will achieve this, in the end. You will simply need to be pushed further. Harder. We'll have to see if you can be put to other projects. It becomes easier once you've completed one major working, and it can take many attempts before that working is achieved. Raising Watson – that is most definitely a major working, so it really isn't a surprise that you are having many failures."

 

"How many tries did it take you? For Blackwood?"

 

There's a curious silence, like the odd hollow space a caught breath leaves, and then Coward says, "I?"  
  


The door opens, and Blackwood enters, back for the evening. Coward looks at him like a moth drawn to flame.

 

"Just once," he says. "But I had everything going for me." And rises to go to Blackwood before Holmes can ask him to explain.

 

*

 

That night, when they fall into bed together, as has become habit, Coward can't quite seem to find room for Holmes.

 

Coward can only seem to see Blackwood, and touches him, kisses him, like he's afraid he'll disappear beneath his fingers, and Blackwood lets him. Is as careful with Coward, catches his hands once and kisses his fingertips, and Coward laughs breathlessly, a bit wildly. Normally, Blackwood would have sunk his fingers into Coward's flesh and urged him along, or pushed him towards Holmes with a slightly amused, indulgent smile. Not tonight. Tonight he lets Coward possess him, as though he realizes Coward needs this in some way.

 

And Holmes … Holmes is not part of it.

 

He lays his hand on Coward's shoulder, once, trails his fingers down his spine, and Coward shifts away, ever so lightly but still enough that Holmes stills. Coward rolls so he's atop Blackwood, sliding down onto Blackwood's cock, beautiful, needy, and Holmes cannot touch him. He stays, propped on one elbow, watching them as they move together, as Blackwood reaches up and strokes Coward's face, and Coward leans into his touch and cries out softly, "Henry," and Holmes thinks he will never hear his name said like that. He drops back into the bed, burrows his face into the pillows, but he can still smell them, the sweat and the come over the burnt ashes scent of them both, still hear the little cries and moans Coward makes, Blackwood's panting breath, skin sliding against skin.

 

When they're finished, when Coward has rolled off to curl against Blackwood's other side, away from Holmes, Holmes feels a touch on his hair. He turns his head, and Blackwood is watching him, his face impossible to read. He says nothing, his fingers continuing to thread slowly through Holmes' hair, and – and he shouldn't because it's Blackwood, and Blackwood is seldom kind without a price, and this bed was never a place he wanted to be, and -

 

But his heart hurts, and envy is rising in him, though he pretends it is not, pretends he does not care, does not hurt, because he shouldn't hurt, he shouldn't, and he slides over to curl against Blackwood, forehead resting on his skin, pretending this is not what he wants.

 

Hating that this is what he wants.

 

*

 

Coward keeps to his word, and is soon setting Holmes to work on the same sorts of tasks he's been doing, albeit on a smaller scale. Holmes thinks it amuses Coward to make him play a part, however small, in their takeover, but it helps, he thinks. Each thing is harder than those he has accomplished in the past, yet, though he struggles with some, he completes them all, each easier than the last. Soon he is doing things with the magic that he would have thought, a month or so ago, he would never be able to do. Coward pushes him, and Holmes responds.

 

And Coward pushes himself as well, relentlessly, teetering so often on the edge of collapse – but his point of exhaustion exists so far beyond Holmes' – he can't understand why, or how. What it is that is different in Coward.

 

His point of exhaustion may lie far beyond Holmes', but he pushes himself over it with increasing frequency. More than once, he has not simply collapsed over his desk, but fallen as he stands, Blackwood always catching him, his face pale and worried until Coward stirs, until he's bustled him into bed – "If I have to sit on you, Daniel...", until he's dragged out a promise to go a little easier. A promise which never seems to be kept.

 

Holmes tries, one time, catches Coward's hand and traces a gylph for energy into it, pushing with all he's got as Coward stares at him. He's seen Coward do it before, knows it can work. The glyph flashes and fades, and Coward doesn't look any different. He smiles, almost sadly, at Holmes, and presses his hand to Holmes' cheek.

 

Once, as Blackwood comes in, Coward rises to go to him, takes two steps and drops. Blackwood is too far away, but Holmes is not; he catches him just before he hits the ground, landing on his knees with Coward slumped against him, head hanging. Holmes looks up as Blackwood kneels before him, taking Coward's head in his hands, and his expression makes Holmes catch his breath, makes him want to hide.

 

Coward stirs, blinks, slurs out an apology that does nothing to reassure them, and Blackwood's breath rushes out, followed by a torrent of angry words. "You must stop," he says finally. "You must. You must."

 

Coward half raises a hand. "You know I can't, Henry. You know why I won't stop. There's no choice." Blackwood shakes his head, and Holmes' arms tighten around Coward.

 

Their eyes meet over Coward's head, mirrors of concern and fear.

 

*

 

As they gain more followers, more power, Blackwood begins to stay out late, more and more often. It's image as much as anything, Holmes is sure, but if their conspirators want the added drama of midnight meetings, Blackwood is sure to cater to them. For the moment, at least.

 

But it leaves a void

 

A void Coward doesn't seem to know how to fill, that fills instead with silences and staring at nothing and a lack of sleep that is absolutely the last thing Coward needs. Holmes doesn't know what to do about it, if he even should do anything about it.

 

He wants to do something about it.

 

He stands next to Coward, where he is curled up with his head resting on the arm of the settee. "Coward," he says, quietly, but Coward doesn't stir, continues to look off into some unknown distance, blankly. "Coward!"

 

Coward blinks, slowly, shifts, slowly. Turns his head to Holmes and Holmes can see his mind stirring to life, slowly. "Yes, Holmes?" he says after a minute. "What is it?"

 

And now, now Holmes is uncertain of himself. Of what to say. Because what can he say? _Stop, stop curling up like you are hurt inside and stop staring at the walls like you can see past them and stop drifting into some state where I cannot find you and stop ignoring me because I am not him-_ He shakes his head, minutely, trying to shift the thought from his head. What does he think he's doing?

 

But he wants to distract Coward from whatever thoughts he is thinking when Blackwood is gone too long like this. Wants to stop him from moping around the apartment, stop him from seeming so lost, looking so empty. Wants to offer him a distraction he's not even sure Coward will take. Is willing to be nothing more than a substitution, if that's what it takes to put a stop to that terrible, hollow expression Coward gets when there's no one beside him. When there isn't the one he wants beside him.

 

Coward is staring at him now, engaged, curious. "What is it, Holmes?" he says again, head tilted to the side, and Holmes doesn't have anything he can say. He reaches forward, carefully, touches the side of Coward's face. Cups Coward's cheek and slides his hand to curl behind his neck. Coward's hand comes up to close on his wrist, not stopping him, just, resting. He keeps his eyes on those long fingers as his mouth opens, struggling for words.

 

"I want..." he whispers, eyes drifting up to meet Coward's, who looks faintly stunned for a moment, startled.

 

"Oh," Coward breathes out, as much a sigh as a word, and then his fingers are tightening on Holmes' wrist as his head tilts back ever so slightly more, an invitation, and Holmes tightens his own fingers behind Coward's neck, leans in and kisses him.

 

It's almost careful, almost uncertain; there's a ghost in the room between them, for without Blackwood – they've never, _he's_ never, been with one without the other present. Isn't even sure if it's acceptable, if Blackwood and Coward has ever discussed it, ever felt they had reason to consider it. He's nervous, aware that this might be something ill advised, aware in so many ways that they are _alone_ in this room, and he's sure Coward is no less aware.

 

He doesn't want to ask if this is ok.

 

He pushes a little, bends down a little more and kisses Coward a little deeper, a little harder, and Coward makes a noise in the back of his throat and pushes right back, his other hand coming up to grasp at Holmes' shirt. Holmes finds himself off balance, having to lean down like this, and pulls back for a moment.

 

Coward looks flushed, slightly breathless. "Why?" he asks, and Holmes doesn't want to start that discussion, doesn't want to really think about that, so he shakes his head. Sinks down to his knees before Coward, runs a hand up his leg and watches Coward's breath catch, his eyes widen. He thinks about what he could do down here; slides his hand up further, and swallows, nervously. It's not that it's anything new to him, now, anything he hasn't, hasn't tried with them, but this … taking the first step, taking the lead, this he doesn't know, this is what is new to him. This is what makes his hands shake with more than eagerness.

 

Coward's eyes close when Holmes' hand reaches the bulge in his trousers, and for a moment Holmes stills, looking at Coward's face. This is what he's expecting, really. What he's here for, why he's doing this. So Coward won't have to think about how Blackwood isn't here. So Coward can close his eyes and pretend the mouth sucking him off is Blackwood's, that it's Blackwood's hair he's burying his fingers in, Blackwood he's kissing. It's what he was aiming for. It's what he was expecting.

 

He wasn't really expecting it to hurt.

 

He drops his eyes from Coward's face and concentrates instead on the long length of his cock, stroking it through that fabric and fumbling at buttons, struggling for that first touch of skin on skin. Coward gasps quietly at his touches and sinks his fingers into the cushions, then; "No," he says, and it takes a moment for Holmes to register what he's heard. He freezes, pulls back and jerks his head up to stare at Coward, unprepared for rejection.

 

"No," Coward says again, shaking his head, looking down at Holmes. "That's not," he pushes at Holmes' shoulders gently, and Holmes shifts back. Slides down off the settee and settles himself in Holmes' lap, straddling one leg, his own knee perilously close to Holmes' cock. "Not _no,_ " he says, smiling at Holmes, easily. "Just not that," and he closes his eyes and kisses Holmes, leaning into him, hands tugging at Holmes' shirt until he can slide his hands up under it, fingers caressing Holmes' skin and making him sigh into Coward's mouth. He puts his own hands to use, finishing undoing Coward's trousers and pushing them down as he grasps at the curve of Coward's ass, at the curls of hair above his cock, finally, finally, at the heated, sticky flesh of Coward's cock. Coward moans into his kisses, pants alongside his neck as he trails kisses down Holmes' neck, biting gently – and then not so gently – at the curve of his shoulder.

 

But he doesn't stop touching Holmes, and he knows all the right places and ways to touch Holmes now, and he's using them all. Stroking his skin, pinching his nipples, kissing and biting at his neck as he claws at Holmes' back, everything Holmes likes best, everything that scrambles his brain into incoherence. They press into each other, and somewhere along the way Holmes has lost his shirt; but that's only fair, he thinks after a few muzzy moments, because Coward has somehow rid himself of his trousers and there's more bare skin for him touch now. He feels dizzy and hungry and doesn't want to stop touching Coward for anything, doesn't want Coward to stop making those noises ever, doesn't even care if Coward's thinking more of Blackwood than of him.

 

Coward pulls back, eyes closed, disheveled, dazed looking, and Holmes whines and reaches to pull him back. Coward presses back against him willingly, but keeps on pressing forward until Holmes overbalances and finds himself on his back on the floor, Coward on all fours above him. "I want," Coward says. Touches Holmes' face, trails a finger over his lips. "I want to fuck you," he says, and Holmes lets out a breath like he's been punched. "Want to-" he trails off as he leans down and bites Holmes' bottom lip. "Want," he whispers, and Holmes nods and whispers back a yes.

 

Holmes twists, trying to look, trying to remember if there's anything within reach that they could use – anything that wouldn't require _moving_ , and Coward growls at him. "Never mind," he mutters, and follows it with something sibilant and annoyed sounding. Holmes can't help but laugh at him.

 

"Only you would," he starts, only to break off with a gasp as Coward slides a cool, slick finger into him.

 

"Would what?" Coward asks with a raised eyebrow, twisting his finger. Holmes shakes his head helplessly.

 

"Nothing!" he says. "Nothing! Oh, fuck, don't stop, don't-" and Coward silences him in the most effective way, kissing him as Holmes clings to him and shudders, his moans increasing with each finger Coward adds, shifting restlessly back and forth, panting and shivering and making noises he knows he'd be embarrassed by any other time. Coward keeps it up until he's begging, near incoherence with want and need and please, _please Coward, please-_

 

Coward slides into him with a sigh, one Holmes echoes as he finally feels full, though the edges of his need are only growing. Looks up to Coward; Coward, head tilted back, lips parted as he breathes quickly, almost panting, eyes closed, and he knows, knows what Coward is seeing, knows what Coward is imagining, knows what Coward really wants. Knows he's just a body to Coward right now, knows-

 

"Holmes," Coward breathes out, eyes opening. He rolls his head down, catching Holmes' gaze as he reaches forward, places his hand flat on Holmes' chest, above the beat of his heart. "Holmes," he says again, and it's a sound in his voice, a something that shakes Holmes, and he realizes with a start that Coward is _looking_ at him. Really looking, at _him_ , and Holmes shivers, feeling the sudden desire to hide. Coward is looking at him like, like-

 

like the one he wants right now is Holmes.

 

"Please," Holmes whispers, and Coward begins to fuck him, with long, slow strokes that are for too slow for what Holmes wants, what Holmes needs. He whines and tries to press for faster, for harder more please, but Coward won't, he _won't_. Leans in and kisses Holmes and looks at him with those crazy blue eyes that won't let him look away and presses Holmes' thighs up, further, further, and fucks him so slow that Holmes is near sobbing with frustration, can feel the need building in him, overwhelming him, making every breath of air and faint brush of skin against his cock near agony until finally, finally, he comes. It catches him almost by surprise, eyes widening and still caught by Coward's gaze, trapped, as he clings and silently shudders against him, curling up towards him, longing towards him, until he remembers sudden;y to breath. He gasps and closes his eyes, head falling to the side as he twitches and shivers his way through the aftershocks, though Coward continuing to fuck him, and the roaring in his ears almost covers the cry Coward gives as he comes a few moments later.

 

Coward collapses down onto him, slightly askew, his breath hot against Holmes' shoulder. Holmes keeps his eyes closed, turned in Coward's direction. Something is welling up in him, something sitting on his chest and pinching behind his eyes and it's almost like tears, but why, he's no reason for tears, and he may not know what it is but it is terrifying and Coward's hand is on his chest, is running up his neck, is stroking his face, is touching him so gently-

 

Holmes opens his eyes and Coward is right there, calm, content. Not thinking, not fretting, not wanting something not there.

 

Not ignoring him in favor of someone else.

 

*

 

He wakes, suddenly, confused for a moment. It's dark, the fireplace producing only the faintest of glows, and there's a warm, heavy mass on his chest – Coward, his mind supplies after a minute, it's Coward who's head is resting on his chest, breaths that are almost small snores stirring his skin. But something else woke him, something -

 

There's a stir at the edge of his vision, and he turns his head. Blackwood stares down at him, crouched beside them. Holmes freezes, thinking, fearing – he hadn't meant for Blackwood to find them like this, what if he didn't approve, what if he was angry, what if he-

 

But the look on Blackwood's face is definitely not anger. Holmes isn't sure he knows what exactly it is. Sadness, worry, weariness, fear – some of all those, and others. Holmes takes a breath to say something, to start to explain, and Blackwood shakes his head.

 

"Don't wake him," he says in a barely audible voice. He gazes down at them a moment longer, then reaches out and cups the back of Holmes' head, brushing his thumb over his cheek, gently, before his hand slides down to grip Holmes' shoulder, his eyes on Coward the whole time. He says nothing more; rises and disappears into the bedroom, leaving Holmes uneasy, though he read the expressions on Blackwood's face as he looked at Coward easily enough.

 

Approval. Relief. And, in his final glance at Holmes, in his final touch, appreciation.

 

*

 

The next time Blackwood knows he's going to be gone until late, he stops behind Coward. Slides his hand into Coward's hair and tugs at it. "Be good," he says. "Don't exhaust yourself while I’m gone." He says it to Coward, but looks over his head at Holmes.

 

Coward snorts, and Blackwood tugs his hair harder. "I mean it," he says, still looking at Holmes. Smiles, faintly. "Or I'll have Holmes sit on you when I can't. He'll look after you." _Won't you,_ his glance says.

 

Holmes nods slightly. _Yes._

 

"I," Coward says, petulantly, "do not need 'looking after'."

 

Blackwood and Holmes share a single amused, exasperated glance over Coward's head, and another layer shreds from those holding _him_ apart from _them_.

 

*

 

Coward comes to him one day.

 

"Holmes," he says lightly, as though what he's about to say is of little consequence. "I need something from you. A favor."

 

"What?" and if Holmes is a little wary, who can blame him.

 

"I need your help for a ritual. It's messy, but not difficult, it's simply that I can't effectively do it myself."

 

"Why aren't you asking Blackwood for help?" Holmes asks him, and Coward's face goes very still. "Ah. Is it very dangerous, then?"

 

Coward looks distinctly annoyed. "Not as dangerous as Henry thinks," he snaps.

 

Holmes shakes his head. "Somehow I don't think this is a very good plan."

 

"Holmes," Coward touches his hand. "I need this. It's not – I can't do what I need to without a little extra help. If I don't do this, I can't take care of him, I can't protect him. He won't," he lifts his hands helplessly. "He won't listen. Won't help. I near begged him and he still … please, Holmes. I have to be able to keep him safe."

 

His eyes are a little too wide, his grip on Holmes' hand tight. "I have to," he whispers. "Please."

 

He knows it's a terrible idea, knows he shouldn't do it. Knows he's going to catch hell from Blackwood for helping. Knows it for worse than a terrible idea when Coward explains just exactly what he's going to be doing – "Cut you! How can you even say this isn't dangerous when I’m supposed to be _bleeding_ you..." and even more when Coward elaborates on what follows the cutting - "I’m supposed to _what?_ " But.

 

But all the same. Coward looks at him, and asks, and begs, and Holmes knows too well that need to keep someone safe, and of course he says yes.

 

He knows the symbols he's supposed to carve into Coward's back, and for a moment he feels like shaking Coward. _You don't have to do this to take care of him_ , he wants to say, _he wouldn't want this, he doesn't want this, he wants you to be careful with yourself_ , but he knows they're useless words. He starts shaking when Coward hands him the knife, and Coward stops, closes his hand around Holmes' on the handle.

 

"Holmes," he says, with a smile that could almost make Holmes believe anything. "It will be alright. I promise."

 

"But what if it goes wrong?" Holmes can't help but ask. "What if I mess it up?"

 

Coward touches his lips with a finger. "You won't," he says. "I trust you, Holmes." And that's another terrible idea, as far as Holmes is concerned, but he knows by now that trying to convince Coward to do something other than what he's put his mind to is equally as poor an idea.

 

He hesitates again when faced with Coward, stripped down, lying face down on the bed, his head propped up on his arms. His back is pale, unmarked, and Holmes finds he doesn't really want to mar him. "Coward," he starts, but is cut off with a sharp shake of Coward's head.

 

"Just do it, Holmes." He smiles, the sort of smile Holmes has learned to hear in his voice. "Don't enjoy yourself too much.

 

 _Give me strength_ , he thinks as he sets the knife to Coward's skin. As he presses down, makes the first line, his thoughts turn. _Give him strength_. Coward is nearly silent as the blood wells up, as it runs down his skin in thin, wet lines, but nearly silent is not silent and Holmes is so very conscious of every little caught breath and choked off whimper, the faint shuddering of skin as he contains his flinches. The knife is very sharp, and the cuts quite shallow, but as each completed glyph flashes bright gold for a moment, Holmes knows there is more than one kind of pain Coward is dealing with. He is careful, so careful, and concentrating so hard. He can smell the blood, the thick coppery scent heavy in the back of his throat.

 

The lines march across Coward's back, and even though Coward warned him, told him he'd want, in the end, it still surprises Holmes when he begins to feel the first stirring of heat in his belly. Feels his cock stiffen, feels a wave of lust hit him. He swallows, hard, and pauses, rest the knife flat against Coward's back, his hand over it, fingers digging into Coward's skin ever so slightly. "Holmes?" Coward says, turning his head a little more, his voice rough.

 

"I-" Holmes says, and then the words get caught in his throat.

 

"Oh," Coward says. "It's supposed to happen, Holmes. Just, just keep going."

 

And he does, tries to pull his concentration that much tighter, but it's not helping that now Coward's small sounds are closer to moans, that his hips are pressing restlessly against the bed. Not helping that now he wants to touch Coward, almost more than he wants to keep him safe, wants to make him bleed and make him scream and make him, make him – he closes his eyes in frustration and searches for some sort of balance.

 

He finds enough to be able to finish the lines he is etching into Coward's skin, and he presses his thumb into the blood that streaks Coward's skin, presses it next to the last glyph in the seal and ending. Whispers the release, and his control deserts him. He has the presence of mind to toss the knife away, off the bed, before he groans and urges Coward up to his knees. Coward is as eager as he, scrambling up and pressing back against Holmes, rubbing himself against Holmes' cock, and eh swears if Coward doesn't stop that now-

 

There's nothing planned or careful about their actions, nothing mindful; they're both desperately caught up in the build of the ritual, and nothing matters except more contact, more skin on skin, more touching and Holmes is distantly aware of the sounds Coward is making with Holmes' hand around Coward's cock and slick, with precome or the blood now smeared all over Coward's back, which he couldn't say, distantly aware of the tight space between Coward's thighs as he thrusts forward, distantly aware that maybe he should be worried, but none of that is enough to disperse the hazy around his mind as he ruts against Coward, as he presses his forehead to the bloodied skin of Coward's back and moans deep in his throat and comes, still sliding between Coward's thighs, as the bright tingle of magic washes over him and leaves him tingling, numb, limp.

 

*

 

He wakes slowly, groggily, almost. Coward hasn't moved, head still tucked up under Holmes' chin. He opens his eyes fully and -

 

"What," Blackwood hisses, "is this?", his gesture taking in the bloodstained bed. Holmes catches his breath and starts to ease out from under Coward, who shifts slightly, but is silent.

 

"Quiet," he breathes, "don't wake him," and while Blackwood's face is a mask of fear, it's seldom enough that they manage to get Coward to really sleep that he doesn't want to risk waking him. He jerks his head towards the other room and Blackwood stalks out.

 

Holmes finishes extracting himself from Coward's limp grasp and follows him, wondering what he can possibly say.

 

"What happened,' Blackwood asks, slightly calmer. "Was there an accident? Is he badly hurt?"

 

Holmes shakes his head. "It wasn't an accident – he wanted me to-"

 

"You did this to him?" Blackwood breaks in, his voice tight.

 

"He asked me to." Holmes raises his head. "Begged me to, dammit. Said _you_ wouldn't, what could I say?"

 

"I – Do you even know what you did? How dangerous it could have been? There's a reason I told him I wouldn't even try! You could have killed him, burned him alive!"

 

Holmes swallows. "He said it was safe," he whispers. "I didn't just do it on a whim. It's not like I want to hurt him!"

 

Blackwood rounds on him. "Why wouldn't you? How would I know you wouldn't hurt him? I thought you wouldn't, but this- this is your idea of looking after him?"

 

Holmes jerks back. "I – you know I - he trusted me." Words he can't believe he's saying, words he wishes he wasn't pleased by, even a little. "He trusted me not to mess up, he said."

 

"Am I to take it you have yet to notice his utter lack of instinct for self preservation, then?" Holmes' eyes drop to where his hands grip the back of the chair between them. No. He'd seen all to well how Coward treated himself when his body was all that stood in the way of what he wanted. Knew, better than Blackwood, the lengths to which Coward would ruin himself to keep Blackwood safe. "How could you be so reckless? Does it mean nothing to you even that _you_ could lose your chance? Don't you ever think, Holmes?"

 

"Stop it," and they both turned to Coward as he leans in the doorway, open robe still showing smears of blood on his chest. "Stop yelling at him, Henry; I’m fine, and he's right after all. I did ask him."

 

Blackwood takes a step, and then another, until he is before Coward. He grips Coward's head in both his hands and sets his forehead against Coward's. "You are so _careless_ ," he whispers, voice ragged. "I wish you would stop doing this to me."

 

Coward smiles tiredly at him. "When I can, you will be the first to know. Come to bed, Henry," and draws him into the bedroom.

 

Holmes remains, frozen, hands aching from his grip on the chair. He knew. He knew it was a terrible idea from the second Coward spoke, yet – Coward asked him, and he couldn't just say no, he'd wanted – for once, he'd wanted to do something right. If he'd just thought – The story of his life, isn't it? If he had just thought.

 

He doesn't belong here. He can't stay here. Not tonight. He heads for the door.

 

His hand is on the doorknob when Coward speaks. "What are you doing, Holmes?"

 

He flinches.

 

"Holmes? Where are you going, this hour of the night?"

 

"I don't know," he says, finally. "Away. He was right. I shouldn't have given in." He looks at Coward. "I knew better, and I could have killed you. I didn't think, I was too –" _overcome by lust_ , his mind finishes.

 

"No," Coward says. "You wouldn't have killed me. I wouldn't have asked you if I thought that was a possibility. He's just scared, Holmes."

 

Holmes shakes his head. "He was right."

 

Coward stares at him for a long moment. "Right or not," he finally says, "it doesn't matter. Tonight, I want you in my bed as well. Don't leave, Holmes."

 

Holmes shivers, rests his head against the door. He could run. He could escape, could try -

 

 _I want you in my bed_.

 

He turns back, blindly. "I didn't mean -"

 

"Hush," Coward tells him. "Come back to bed."

 

He follows him into the bedroom; Blackwood is already there, in bed. Coward flops down on his stomach, gracelessly, and Holmes curls up, Coward a safe wall between him and Blackwood.

 

Blackwood touches a bloodied symbol, ever so lightly. "I don't even know what they mean," he says, quietly. Coward is silent.

 

Minutes pass. Blackwood sighs and puts down his head, and Holmes hears himself speak, not having made any decision to. "Eskru - Strength. Shintha - Loyalty. Hyata - Wisdom. Ispinath - Foresight…" The words roll off his tongue, symbols and meanings he'd murmured to himself as he'd cut them into Coward's back. Coward turns his head to face him, a surprised look on his face. Holmes breaks off, laughs, harshly. "Did you think I did not know them? That I was simply tracing the pretty lines? And still, you asked me to do it?" Coward is shaking his head now, but Holmes doesn't care.

 

He looks at Blackwood. "They are to make him more, make him stronger. He only does it to provide for you. You should be grateful, that you are so lucky as to have someone willing to do that for you." He rolls over, away from their looks.

 

He wants to run.

 

A hand touches his back, traces a circular glyph, one Holmes knows too well.

 

_I want you in my bed._

 

There is silence, and he stays.

 

*

 

"Where did it come from?" Holmes asks, curiously, a bit jealously.

 

Coward blinks. "Excuse me?"

 

"All this," Holmes waves his hands, "magic. Power. You've a massive amount – I can tell, now, I couldn't before – and you couldn't have had it before your downfall." He smiles, a bit bitterly, "I'd never have brought the two of you down if you had."

 

Coward taps his finger on the wood arm of his chair. "It wasn't my plan," he says absently. "It was Henry's plan, and flawed, I’m afraid. He planned as though he had more magic to command than he actually possessed." Holmes shifts slightly, but he cannot quite bring himself to force the knowledge on Coward of how Blackwood had possessed no magic, only science and machines and clever men. Somehow, Coward still believes.

 

"But he would have, if you'd had this power. You would have found a way to make it work, without implicating yourself." He pauses. "You wouldn't have watched him die without a reason, unless you could truly do nothing."

 

Coward flinches at that, and he looks haunted. "I-" he says, then shakes his head.

 

And Holmes … Holmes has been watching, he has been reading, he has been learning, and he is hardly Sherlock Holmes for nothing. He's sure of part of it, but the rest – the rest he only suspects, and it could be any of a number of things. "What did you trade for it?" he asks.

 

Coward shakes his head again, stands and retreats, stands by the fireplace fiddling with a button of his shirt. Holmes rises behind him. "You know what I traded," Coward says roughly. Holmes nods, places his hand over the ragged, horrible scar on Coward's chest, where there is no heartbeat. He can forget, sometimes, that Coward does not work like the rest of them any more. It fascinates him, to hear Coward's panting, ragged breaths when Holmes touches him, brings him to the edge, yet feel no racing heartbeat when Coward collapses onto him, shuddering, hollow. But -

 

"I know you traded something else as well; you must have. It's the only explanation."

 

"Don't-" Coward says. "It's none of your concern. Leave it," and jerks away from Holmes' touch.

 

"I’m assuming you haven't told Blackwood either," Holmes adds, "but you'd best just tell me. I'll figure it out anyway, eventually, because I always do, and when I have, I'll tell him for you."

 

Coward steps forward, threateningly. "You won't," he hisses, and the band on Holmes' wrist tightens painfully.

 

"I will," he says. "Or I'll help him find out, ask the right questions to make him wonder, to put the pieces together himself. I will. What is it, that you so fear telling him?"

 

Coward catches his wrist, and the pain disappears. He turns Holmes' palm over, looks at the crest. "Don't tell him," he says. "Please. Don't." Holmes hesitates a moment, then nods his head. It's not that he really cares if Blackwood knows or not, but _he_ wants to know, and he's willing to push Coward into a corner to find out.

 

Coward stares at his palm. "My life," he says. "My life, a promise, and a passion." Holmes stares at him, confused, suddenly frightened.

 

"What do you mean?" he breathes.

 

Coward sighs. "The remaining span of my measured life, the years to be divided between us. But not -" He shakes his head. "You never really get a fair deal out of the Devil. It seems I would have died relativity young; fifteen years to share, but he'd only give Blackwood five. Only five." His voice catches. "Five years, and then I’m going to have to watch him die again. That's all I could get - five years, and all the power I can use." He smiles, bitterly. "That sounds like more than enough, doesn't it? But I'd have magic stripped from me if it gave him more years."

 

He shakes his head. "But no – I’ve ten years, yes, but magic – if you let it, magic will eat at you. You can do more, you can do things no one would even attempt, if you let the magic take life from you. If you're careful, it need never happen." He smiles, a smile that is brittle and terrifying. "I am not being careful. Well," he laughs, "careful to let magic take enough so that we'll go together, he and I. We'll go together. I won't watch him die again."

 

"And the passion?" Holmes whispers, shaken.

 

Coward shifts, restlessly. "You know our plot, our plan, back then. Make England over, into what it once was. We – we truly felt it was for the best. There must be some horror for triumph to arise from again. I loved England, I wept for its slide into powerlessness. Now – now, I don't care. We plot to take England over and remake her, but – it is only because Henry wishes it still, and I will give it to him, I will give him anything. I don't care about England. England can burn for all I care. The world can burn." He laughs, darkly. "And it will. Oh, it will. When Henry's gone – it will burn, it will collapse, it will fail into ruin and despair. That is my promise, for the power. He gives me all the power I ask for, in return that I bring England weeping before him, that hell will fill to overflowing with British souls."

 

Holmes is shaking now; this Coward, this creature before him – he never knew, truly, how empty he was, how consumed. There is one thing and one thing only in him – his love for Blackwood. There is no place for anything else, not even the most basic humanity. _Not even for yourself_ a little voice whispers. There is only Blackwood.

 

"You-" he whispers. Shakes his head. "It's monstrous."

 

Coward smiles. "And if you raise your beloved, you won't be able to do a thing about it," he says, viciously pleased. Holmes blanches. Coward releases his hand. "It doesn't matter, any of it," he says. "We shall die, shortly, but we'll be together again. That is the promise made to me. Hell cares for its own."

 

"Hell lies, too."

 

"Be quiet."

 

Holmes snorts. "No. And you won't tell Blackwood because …? I'd think you'd want him to know how long, so he doesn't wast his time, want him to know about your planned destruction; it seems like he'd enjoy participating in that." He hesitates, and then – "How long has it been?"

 

"I won't tell him because he doesn't need to be looking forward to doom instead of triumph. He doesn't need to know I’m living on borrowed time. I won't tell him, because-" Coward buries his head in his hands. "Because he wants to build an empire, and empire that will stand long after he is gone, an England that will never fade." he whispers. "A year and a half. Such a short time, it seems, but not for us. Not for us."

 

He laughs, suddenly. "You'll no doubt make as poor a bargain for your Watson, you know."

 

Holmes feels sick.

 

*

 

He's lost count of how many attempts he's made. Too many. Far, far too many. Yet again and again, he tries.

 

This time – this time feels different.

 

There's a moment – a moment when everything seems to freeze, and the magic rushes out of him as though from a wound, faster and faster until he feels weak, the world graying, and then -

 

And then everything turns over and upside down and inside out and -

 

He blinks and there – he can't accurately describe it. He can't even quite look at it.

 

"Mortal," it says. Laughs. "Oh, small mortal. What are you longing for, so desperately?"

 

He can barely speak, barely say it, but he must. "I – I want the one I love back. John Watson." He straightens. "I want him back."

 

"Why would I choose to give him back?" it asks, almost curiously. It has to have played this out countless times, following this script, yet it still sounds as though it actually cares.

 

"I can trade for him," Holmes says, not quite answering the question.

 

"What could you possibly have that I might want? I already have your soul, little mortal."

 

"But I could redeem it yet," Holmes whispers. "It is still mine, though bound for Hell. That could change."

 

"And why would I care so much for your soul? What value has it that makes it a greater prize?"

 

"What value has John Watson's that you will not trade it for mine?"

 

"Point," it says, amused. "Still," it says. "You've given me no reason to bother with the tedious business of searching out that one's soul, giving him a vessel, putting him back in."

 

"Because- because, you do not really care about either of our souls," Holmes says. "I know my soul is nothing special out of the millions teeming the world, so many bound for your realm. One soul out of so many is not worth the trouble, is it? But you are greedy, and do not care to let even one go, do you?"

 

"Point," it says again, softer, but more menacing.

 

"And," Holmes continues. "The suffering – you'll ask more of me, won't you? You won't make it easy for me. Whatever I give you, however much I will welcome its loss for John's return – I will suffer, knowing it is gone. I will suffer, knowing that John will die, again, that I will not live as I should have. You – this simple, small thing – you could feast on the suffering, misery, that I will feel."

 

"Ah," it says. "And there it is, why I keep showing up for these silly little rituals. You suffer, mortals, you suffer and it is beautiful in my eyes. It is the headiest wine, the most succulent of meals, and so beautiful – I want it, and I will never have enough." It sighs, then smiles. "You will suffer if I give him to you. You cannot even begin to imagine how you will suffer. Even if you find happiness with your John Watson – you will still suffer, won't you?" Its smile has too many teeth. "You'll suffer even if I take nothing more from you, won't you."

 

Holmes is silent.

 

It steps out of the circle, and Holmes jerks back. "So," it says. "This is the bargain, then: your soul for your John Watson's, your years for his restoration and life. But how many years? Five? Ten? Twenty? Two?"

 

Holmes leans away from it as it stalks closer. "How many can I pay for?" he asks.

 

Its hand – claw – comes up and catches his chin, forces his face up, forces him to meet those eyes, and they are – they are-

 

"Oh," it says. "That. That is beautiful, and I want it. That I will take for fifteen years."

 

Its eyes are awful. "Take what," he whispers.

 

"Your music," it says. He flinches, an instinctive denial on his lips. He bites it back.

 

"Thirty."

 

"I like you, mortal," it says. "Twenty."

 

He hesitates, but – "Yes," he says.

 

"Point to me, I think," it says, and releases him. "Fifteen years for you, and five for him." It grins.

 

"No!" Holmes bursts out. "That's not-"

 

"Not fair? Not what you bargained for? But you bargained for years only, not the distribution of said years. And I am never fair, little mortal."

 

"Ten years apiece," Holmes says. "Ten years – what will you take?"

 

It looks at him, almost disinterested. Shakes its head. "What have you left to offer me? Little of worth."

 

"My magic," Holmes replies, his voice shaking. "I would give you my magic, for ten years alongside John Watson."

 

Its actually seems startled, for a moment. "Point," it whispers, "to you, mortal. I did not think you would offer it." It smiles. "But it is all the more desirable for it. I will give you your ten years together."

 

It stalks forward, lays a hand on his chest, and his shirt turns to ash where it touches.

 

"I shall savor your ten years together," it says, and clenches its hand, claws ripping through the flesh. Holmes screams, and screams, and screams.

 

"Pretty mortal," he hears, at a distance. "Point and match to me," and it licks its fingers.

 

*

 

The first thing that strikes him is pain.

 

He opens his eyes. There's a stabbing, throbbing pain in his chest, like he can't catch his breath, and there's something _wrong_.

 

He puts his hand to his chest and there – there it is. Nothing. No pulse of heartbeats. He's not sure what he feels.

 

There's a sound beside him, and he turns, and -

 

"John," he whispers. "John!"

 

Watson opens his eyes, blankly. For too many long moments, it is as though no one is there in Watson's head, that Holmes has only been given back his body. Then Watson takes a deep gasping breath and makes a small cry. Holmes sits up, or at least, tries, and finds he must resort to crawling over to Watson. "Watson," he says again, his voice hoarse, and places his hand on Watson's shoulder. Watson starts violently, turns to look at Holmes, his pupils widening and shrinking crazily, and for a second Holmes is reminded of its eyes.

 

"Holmes?" Watson breathes. "What-" he shifts, moves in odd little twitches. "What's happened? What's going on? I was – I was -" he looks confused, unable to place himself, or even his thoughts.

 

"It's ok," Holmes tells him, an empty place inside him filling with relief, with joy, nearly choking him. "You're back now." He takes Watson's hand, holds it between his own. "You're back," he repeats.

 

Watson just stares at him, stares and stares until Holmes feels the first stirrings of unease. "Watson?" he asks.

 

"I was dead," he says, slowly. "I was-" he breaks off, stares down at himself.

 

"Yes," Holmes says, cautiously, uncertain. "But – but you are back now. It's alright."

 

He's not entirely sure if he's trying to convince Watson, or himself.

 

"No." Watson says. "I was dead. I am dead. I – where's Mary?"

 

Something in Holmes freezes. He shakes his head, mutely. Watson brings his hand up to his face, turns it over, examining it as though it is some strange creature. Touches the skin of his throat. "How?" he asks, simply. "Why?"

 

Holmes doesn't know quite what to say. He'd never – he'd never really thought much beyond this point. He hesitates while Watson continues to stare of into space. "I – I traded for you," he says, finally. "I made a bargain. And I can use magic, Watson!" he says, excitedly, pleased to be able to share this at least. "I can do things – it's real, it really is."

 

"Why?" Watson repeats.

 

Holmes looks down at Watson's hand, imprisoned between his own. "Because … because I could not live with the emptiness that everything was without you. You shouldn't have ever died. If I'd been more careful..." he trails off. He swears he can feel the weight of Watson's gaze on him. "Because I love you," he whispers, terror beating in his chest as though he still had his heart.

 

"Oh, Holmes."

 

Holmes head jerks up as he stares at Watson, taken aback at his tone, weary, sad, disappointed. "Watson," he says, pleadingly.

 

Watson shakes his head. Gently removes his hand from between Holmes. "I never loved you like that," he says. "You know that. You know." He stares down at his hands. "Why did you have to bring me back?" he whispers. "It was never you, Holmes."

 

Everything seems to flicker for a moment. "Watson," he whispers, but he can already feel the terrible aching wound in himself.

 

"What am I supposed to do now?" Watson asks him, almost angrily. "What have you brought me back into?" Holmes just shakes his head, again and again and again, unable to speak, not knowing what to do. Watson pushes himself to his feet, unsteadily, and takes a few steps, looking down at the symbols scrawled on the boards of the room, at the blood staining the wood. "What is this?" he asks, and he sounds disgusted, horrified.

 

Holmes remains kneeling on the ground, huddled into himself. "An invitation," he says, numbly. _You've a terrible fear he will come back._ "A ritual."

 

Watson stares down at him, his face tight. "Did you kill someone?" he whispers.

 

Holmes hand goes to his aching chest. "No," he says. "It's not like that. It's-" Beautiful, he wants to say, but he can't quite, the words catching in his throat. A beauty he will never create again. He watches Watson as he walks unsteadily around the room, almost paces. "You loved me, once," he says. "I know you did. I saw it."

 

"I loved you as a _friend_ ," Watson snaps, and Holmes jerks, hand half rising as though to ward himself. Past tense, he thinks. Loved. But no longer? "Holmes," Watson says, impatiently. "Why didn't you bring Mary back as well?"

 

Holmes stares at him. Why would he do such a thing? "I wouldn't have had enough to trade," he says, finally. _I wouldn't have cared enough_ , he thinks. Watson's hands curl into fists.

 

"You didn't care," he snarls, and he can't deny it. "So you're condemning me to the loneliness you could not bear. Am I supposed to thank you? Be grateful to live again?" His words are sharp, scornful, cutting into Holmes, and Holmes can think is -

 

"You should have loved me," he says, unthinkingly, and Watson whirls on him.

 

"But I don't," he says, bluntly. "You were wrong. Now what are you going to do about this mess?"

 

Holmes never would have thought he could hurt more, feel worse, than he had in those first few months after Watson died, but he's finding now that's not so. He'll come back different, Coward had warned him, and he'd been right.

 

Coward.

 

"I -" he looks up at Watson, then stands. "I need – I should get some things for you. Clothes, food – are you hungry?" and Watson nods after a moment. "I'll go – stay here, wait for me, I'll be right back," he says, and takes a step toward the door -

 

and can't do it. He can't leave Watson. To have him here, after so long – if he leaves – what if Watson is gone when he returns? What if he leaves, or never was? How can he step away from him? He turns back, grabs Watson's hand before he aware of it. "Don't go anywhere," he says, fervently. "Please. I don't want to lose you again."

 

Watson pulls his hand away, snorts contemptuously. "Where exactly am I going to go, Holmes?" he asks. "Everything I had is gone. Go," he says. "Go away."

 

And Holmes flees.

 

*

 

When he reaches their – Blackwood and Coward's rooms, Coward looks up from his half finished charm, annoyed, but his face changes to one almost of alarm at the sight of Holmes. Holmes can't imagine what he must look like. Blood spattered, to be sure, unsteady, but – the numbness is fading and pain is flooding through him, far sharper than the ache in his chest.

 

"So," Coward says, softly. "You succeeded, then."

 

Holmes stands, wavers. He does not know what to say; he's afraid if he opens his mouth, something other than words will come out, something mad and terrified. He shakes his head slowly, wanting to deny it. Blackwood steps into the room, toweling his wet hair. Stops as he takes in the two of them. "What's wrong?" he asks. Holmes slumps against the wall, buries his head in his hands.

 

"You were right," he tells Coward. "He's different. He's-" he stops, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he sees wild bursts of color.

 

"Ah," Coward says. "So you did succeed." Holmes looks up at the sound in his voice – something amused, almost. "And you are regretting it already?" he says.

 

Definitely amused.

 

"Coward," he says, weakly. "what do I do?" He takes a step towards him, and then another, a stumbling rush into a fall to his knees beside Coward's chair, his hands held up, beggingly. "What do I _do_?"

 

Coward goes very still. "That," he says, finally, distantly, "is not my problem any more. My end of the bargain is upheld. It's your turn, now."

 

Holmes reels as though he's been struck, a bitter burning feeling rising in his stomach. "What?" he whispers.

 

Blackwood steps forward, his expression troubled as it rarely is. "Daniel," he starts, but Coward cuts him off.

 

"No," he snaps. "it's time. This needs to be ended."

 

"Please," Holmes breathes. "Please-"

 

"I suggest you pack," Coward tells him, even colder. "You've twenty four hours to disappear from England, before your end of the bargain will take its price."

 

Holmes stares at him, unable for a moment to take in what he is saying. He fumbles his way to his feet, finds his way to the bedroom almost by feel, stuffing things into a large valise he'd brought with him, so long ago. Blackwood follows him, standing almost hesitantly in the door. "Holmes," he says quietly. "Maybe-" Holmes cuts him off with a shake of his head.

 

"I don't think so," he says, dully. Then laughs a little, bitterly, almost a sob instead. "What, you being concerned all of the sudden? I wouldn't have thought you'd care."

 

Blackwood smiles faintly. "I believe you've grown on me," he says.

 

Holmes closes the bag, and Blackwood steps aside to let him pass. "Wait," he says, and grabs Holmes wrist, the silver band wrapped around it. "Daniel," he calls.

 

Coward stands, walks to them, lays his hand on top of Blackwood's, half resting on Holmes' skin, and Holmes – he wants – he – he wants -

 

He sways forward, and Coward hisses. "Fickle," he says, and lifts his hand. "No," he says. "That stays. Let it be a reminder of what awaits you, should you return to England."

 

"Go," he says, and Holmes flees, again.

 

*

 

He never can remember, later, what he must have said to convince Watson to come with him, but when he finds the first boat crossing the channel, Watson is beside him.

 

For a second, it is almost like he was never gone.

 

But he was, and this Watson – this Watson is not him. "Where are we going, Holmes?" he asks.

 

He doesn't know. "Away," he says. "Somewhere – somewhere safer. I think."

 

The boat docks in France. They find a room, somewhere, and all the things that should be familiar with Watson are not; it's as though he is rooming with a stranger.

 

A few days later, the news comes. England, fallen. England, ruled by two men, ruled with fire and madness.

 

*

 

"Where did you learn those things?" Watson asks him. "The Holmes I knew wouldn't have even gone looking for actual magic."

 

Holmes stirs his finger through a droplet of water on the table. "There were rumors," he said, "of someone having been resurrected, rumors that I could not dismiss without checking into them more seriously. Rumors I could not explain."  
  
"Blackwood," Watson says, and Holmes nods. "So you could believe it, then. But where did you find the knowledge? How did you even find out you could do … that?"

 

Holmes glances down at the band on his wrist. "I made a bargain," he says, softly. Rubs at it, his thumb pressing into the crest. "I went to the source."

 

Watson stares at him, as though stunned. "Them?" he whispers, shocked. "You went to _them_?"

 

"I had no choice," Holmes says. _Will it be easier if you pretend I’m not giving you a choice?_ He shivers. "It – It wasn't that bad."

 

Watson shakes his head. "What did they do to you? What did they make you do?"

 

And Holmes can't quite help it, when he thinks of what they did; he feels his face heat, and Watson is looking at him with an expression that is edging into disgust. "They didn't make …" he says, weakly.

 

Watson jerks away from him. "So you … you chose _that_?"

 

"It's not - " Holmes stops. He doesn't know how to explain what it was, what happened. Everything he think of to say just makes it sound even worse. How can he tell Watson that – that he felt almost safe, almost part of something – he doesn't even know how to explain it to himself.

 

"Yes," he says. "I chose that."

 

*

 

"There's a resistance forming," Watson tells him. "I’m going to it."

 

Holmes looks up from the sigil he's tracing, over and over and over, useless. "Then we'll go," he says. "We can leave tomorrow."

 

"I," says Watson. "Not we."

 

Holmes sighs. "I am coming with you. If you won't let me travel with you, I will merely follow behind."

 

"Why?" Watson says, harshly. "Why bother coming with me? You don't want to join a resistance – you won't do anything. Wouldn't do anything then. All you say is you can't, you can't, you can't – you won't." He shakes his head. "You got too close to them, Holmes. You can't see anything clearly."

 

They won't last, he wants to say, but he knows that won't matter, not with Watson. "I’m coming with you," he repeats.

 

*

 

He ends up regretting it, in the end.

 

To Watson, he might as well be a stranger – only a stranger would be treated with more civility. Watson makes no effort to hide his distaste for Holmes' company now, or his disgust that Holmes maintains his neutrality. Again, and again, and again, various resistance members ask him for his help in figuring out some clue or connecting the dots or making sense of patterns – especially Lestrade, the worst of them all in pressing him, and every time he must turn them away, enduring the growing anger directed at him.

 

He could bear it better if he were simply turning them down due to his bargain; however, it seems Coward was right about his magic. With it gone, his intellect seems to have dimmed. His senses seem to have dulled – he no longer sees or smells the small details people often overlook, and he has gained a bit of understanding as to why the average person does not notice them, now that he no longer can. His mind no longer leaps to connections or creates order out of supposedly random bits of information.

 

He's nothing more than the level of detective he used to mock Lestrade as, nothing more than a reputation that he can no longer uphold, and every question keeps the realization an open wound.

 

*

 

He doesn't really know what's going on, most of the time, as he's not exactly in the inner circle. He spends his time drifting, really, trying to regain what he has lost, and failing. He doesn't dare try and find a violin; he doesn't think he could bear to have that loss confirmed.

 

He has no friends among the grim men who plot Blackwood's downfall, no purpose. Just loneliness and hostility and cold, empty beds, and his memories burn at him constantly. He remembers what it was like to be touched as though the other cared for him – and then is reminded again every day that is something he will not have again. He remembers warmth, and companionship, and feeling as though he was included, and his memories keep him cold comfort.

 

He strikes up a quiet sort of truce with Lestrade at least, so there is one person who does not simply despise him; Lestrade hardly understands, but when Holmes drinks too much in his company once, he listens, and doesn't repeat Holmes' words, doesn't seem to judge too openly. Maybe he does understand – not Holmes' actions, but the why of it.

 

It becomes habit to twist the silver band round and round his wrist, thumb rubbing across the seal still used to seal Coward's messages – he has seen some – and tries to ignore those who notice it, notice the connection and begin to look at him as though it is proof he is owned by the enemy. He cannot remove it, though he has not tried as hard as he possibly could.

 

The days stretch out into weeks, into months, into a seemingly endless span of time, until a year passes, and then another, long empty years. It won't be that much longer, he tries to tell them – Blackwood's years are almost up – but they don't believe him, won't believe him.

 

They're almost over.

 

*

 

"He's dead."

 

Holmes looks up. "Blackwood?"

 

The look Lestrade gives him is almost pity. "No."

 

Holmes reels. No. No. Not Watson. No. "What?" he chokes out. It's a mistake. They're wrong.

 

"Dead," Lestrade says, exhaustion and devastation drawing his face into painful lines. "I saw it. He went – he didn't turn fast enough, I shouted, but he just … didn't turn fast enough." He shakes his head. "I shouldn't have let him sight on Blackwood, Coward – Coward's always there, how is he always, always there, it's always him. It doesn't matter how careful we are, how hidden, how sure he's busy – it never matters, he's always the one to take out men down. I shouldn't have-"

 

Coward. The name rings in Holmes head; he tastes bile. Coward. Not. Watson. He can't – it's not – it's all gone wrong, gone so wrong, this shouldn't have happened – how, how could Coward, how? He stumbles back from the table, knocking over his chair as Lestrade stares at him. No. This – this isn't happening. Not like this. How can Watson be dead, when he paid for his life, his full life? Coward can't have, he can't – he wouldn't, not when they, not after they, not with what he'd said to Holmes, not when he knew – knew – knew what he was doing to Holmes, no – Watson, he can't be dead, he _can't_.

 

He stumbles away, blind, half falling along the wall until he's away, away from the bearer of ill tidings, away – his hands find a door, open it, and he tumbles inside, and the smell – Watson -

 

*

 

When he comes to, he's in a bed. He opens his eyes. Lestrade is sitting alongside the bed, watching him. He's silent.

 

Holmes turns over, away. He doesn't want his sympathy.

 

*

 

"Don't go."

 

Holmes laughs. "What else shall I do? Why shouldn't I go?" and he knows his voice is bitter, biting.

 

Lestrade's fingers tighten on the door frame. "You'll only get yourself killed. And that," he gestures at the silver band, "what will that do? There's a reason you've stayed away so long." He pauses, then plays what is obviously his trump card. "You know Watson wouldn't want this."

 

Holmes snarls. "You know very well Watson couldn't have cared less about what happens to me, anymore. And I know what it will do." He touched the band. "I'll deal with that." He stuffs the last few things – so few, he doubts he'll even need any of it – and closes his bag, turns for the door. Lestrade doesn't move.

 

"Holmes-"

 

"No. Drop it, Lestrade," he says, and shoulders past him. He'll have to hurry if he wants to catch the train.

 

*

 

He'd barely gotten within England – hasn't even set foot off the boat, when it starts. The band tightens, violently, and for a moment it thinks it will cut through him in seconds. He cries out in pain, and people turn to him as he clutches his arm – and it's gone. Mostly gone. The band indents his flesh now, rather than moving freely.

 

A warning.

 

He grits his teeth and pays for the return journey on the ferry.

 

*

 

They don't understand. Of course they don't.

 

"I’m paying you," he says, tightly. "That should be good enough for you."

 

"But there's nothing wrong with it!" The doctor is agitated, confused.

 

Holmes laughs. "I’ve known doctors." he says. "First do no harm. You cannot see what is wrong with it – _you_ never will. It is what will become wrong with it that I must avoid, and this – this is the only way." His voice drops. "I do not like it either."

 

The doctor takes his hand, turns it over, studies it. "Nothing wrong," he whispers.

 

"Not yet," Holmes replies. "Not yet." He turns a cold gaze on the doctor. "And it shall not yet happen. It must come off."

 

*

 

He wins. He always wins.

 

Not that he can spare thought for that, not for many days. He drifts in and out of pain filled segments, dreams that leave him longing for the clean pain of his severed hand.

 

His hand.

 

He will not look at it.

 

He has done what he must.

 

*

 

It is hard for him to know how many days he spends shivering and sweating on a filthy bed in a cheap little rented room, but it one day too many. He wakes to the sounds of violence; there is rioting in the streets, dead littering the streets.

 

He is too late. Blackwood is dead. Blackwood is dead, and it seems Coward has begun to fulfill his promise to make the world burn.

 

*

 

He finds Coward in the throne room, alone. "Were you waiting for me?" he asks.

 

"What if I was?" Coward asks. The gun hangs loosely in his hand as he stares out the window. He turns to Holmes with a smile. "It burns."

 

Holmes shudders. The parts of London he'd walked through straight out of a nightmare.

 

"I really didn't think you'd come back," Coward muses. "Not even after I killed Watson – you know, I didn't even realize it was him at first. Just another body to add to the pile of fools after Blackwood." He laughs. "It felt like some twisted hand of fate, when I turned him over."

 

Holmes can hear the sea in his ears, his rage rising. "And would you have let him live, if you'd know it was him?"

 

"No," Coward says. "Probably not." Holmes cries out, raises his gun to point at Coward. Coward stares at him, doesn't even raise his own gun. "What have you done to your hand, Holmes?" He steps forward.

 

"Don't," Holmes tells him. "Don't move. Don't come any closer. I'll shoot you."

 

Coward smiles at him, hardly a smile, rather a baring of teeth. "Go on," he says, as he continues to walk forward. "Kill me. Why should I care? Henry's gone, and I’m dying anyway. Why shouldn't I welcome a quicker death by your bullet?"

 

Holmes can hear it in his voice – knows that pain, knows that madness, that despair. Knows them, oh, knows them so well. He lowers his gun just a fraction. "We weren't supposed to watch them die," he whispered. "Coward-"

 

Coward grabs his stump and squeezes, twists his fingers, and Holmes screams, drops his gun and pushes at Coward, frantic. Coward grabs his other wrist, pulls him in and hits him, hits his face hard enough that Holmes falls to his knees. Coward kicks him, kicks him in the stomach, and it hurts, god, it hurts, he wants to curl up around his pain, but -

 

but the gun wasn't the only weapon he'd brought with him.

 

He brings up his knife, slashes at Coward and actually cuts him, a shallow slice across his chest, but still, something. Coward leaps back, presses his hand the to bleeding cut and stares at the blood on his hand. "Oh, Holmes," he says, and comes after him.

 

They fight, and it is a frantic series of scrambles and attacks for Holmes; Coward will lunge at him, even manage to grasp him sometimes, or hit him, send him falling, always too close, and Holmes slashes at him with the knife – and almost every time, comes away with more blood. Coward is dripping blood on the pale marble floor from a dozen cuts, most of them deep, yet he hasn't used his gun. He hasn't used his magic. "What are you doing, Coward?"

 

Coward lunges again, but this time – this time he grabs Holmes knife, grabs the blade and twists it from Holmes grip, never minding the blood that runs down his hands is seconds, the wounds cutting through the delicate tendons of his fingers. He flings it away; Holmes hears it clatter to the floor far off, but he's occupied with Coward's madness.

 

Coward tackles him and they go down, hard, Coward atop Holmes, punching him, splattering blood on his face. Holmes fights back, twists and squirms and grabs until he's out from under Coward, half on his knees, grasping for the other knife hidden in his boot – he's not stupid when it comes to arming himself - and he lunges at Coward. Pins him down with his body, sets his knife to Coward's throat, and looks down at him through a haze.

 

Coward's laughing. He can feel it under his hand, Coward's chest vibrating as he laughs, wildly. But no heartbeat. Never, any heartbeat. He pants as he watches Coward laugh, grinning, a bloody smile. "Do it, Holmes," he whispers. "Do it."

 

"You no longer have the right to order me around," Holmes says, but doesn't move his knife away. Coward's smile slips away.

 

"Please," he whispers. "Let me be with him."

 

Holmes swallows. "There never was room for anyone but Blackwood in you," he says, and he's not sure if it's bitter or sad or regretful, what he's feeling, when he looks at Coward and remembers stupid little things – what it was like to hold him, to take a mug of tea from him, to earn a genuine smile from him. It could have – he almost wanted – "Coward," he whispers, then, "Daniel."

 

Coward's eyes widen. "Don't," he whispers. "Don't."

 

"I can't," Holmes breathes, and there's a movement at his side, a noise, a pain so sharp his mind blanks. He falls off Coward, reach a shaking hand down to source of pain, in his abdomen, and it's covered in blood. He stares at Coward, wide eyed, shocked. It's a gut shot; he can feel the weakness, the lassitude, after just moments. Coward turns his head to look at him, serenely.

 

"Suicides go to hell," he says and his hand comes up, and Holmes closes his eyes a second too late.

 

He doesn't open them again. He doesn't want to see. He just lies there, not fighting it, feeling himself grow weak, colder by the second.

 

He wonders if they'll be waiting for them.

 

*


	4. Happy(er) Ending

*

 

Holmes swallows. "There never was room for anyone but Blackwood in you," he says, and he's not sure if it's bitter or sad or regretful, what he's feeling, when he looks at Coward and remembers stupid little things – what it was like to hold him, to take a mug of tea from him, to earn a genuine smile from him. It could have – he almost wanted – "Coward," he whispers, then, "Daniel."

 

Coward stares at him, blankly. Opens his mouth, then closes it. "I- there never needed to be."

 

"You could have -" he closes his eyes. Swallows. Tells Coward something he's never admitted, even to himself. "I wish I could have stayed, there. I wish I'd never succeeded." Coward's eyes widen.

 

"You-"

 

"Shhh," Holmes tells him. Leans forward and leave a red kiss on Coward's forehead. "Don't worry. I'll let you go to him," and takes a deep breath, preparing.

 

"Wait," Coward whispers. He's looking at Holmes like he something confusing, odd, to be studied. He raises his hand, touches Holmes' cheek. "You should have stayed," he says. "Almost," he says, hesitantly. "I-"

 

Holmes lets loose a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "God," he says. "Look at us." He shakes his head, then drops it until their foreheads are touching, so close their eyes won't focus on each other. "What are we to do," he whispers, and it's not really a question.

 

"I could almost -," Coward says. His fingers drift to Holmes' lips. "You – I don't like it. I was never supposed to feel anything." He closes his eyes. "I don't think I could, without him. But – I almost want to." He shivers. "You're warm," he whispers.

 

Holmes feels something raw and hungry in the back of his throat. "Do you think, if – if I hadn't -"

 

Coward closes his eyes. "Not that it matters," he says, "with the magic eating at me."

 

"We could build his empire," Holmes says, hesitantly. Coward stiffens as his eyes fly open. He looks surprised. "And – and you, you could give me the magic," he whispers. "I could build it for you."

 

"Build his empire?" Coward breathes. "We … we could. He'd like that." Stares at Holmes, the emptiness in him pulling at him. "I'd-" he starts. Bites his lip.

 

"Five years," Holmes tells him. "It's not much – there's not much for either of us – but..."

 

"It's not that long of a wait," Coward says.

 

No, Holmes thinks. Not long at all. Not long enough.

 

*


End file.
